#kittenanwritesrm

You were seven when you learned your father hugged like a politician.

Quick. Calculated. For cameras only.

After the flash, he would straighten his suit, pat your head like you were a puppy, and walk away without looking back.

To everyone else you were “the Minister’s daughter.” To your father you weren’t even that. You were… “just an investment.” A future bargaining chip.

Only Chairman Kim ever treated you like a kid.

Every Saturday afternoon, he showed up for tea with your father while discussing politics. He always brought you strawberry candies in golden wrapper.

“For you, little princess,” he’d say, tapping your head, handing you candies while you smiled brightly.

His son always stood behind him. Tall. Quiet. Too serious for a kid.

Kim Namjoon.

You didn’t pay attention to him at first. But at nine, you noticed him properly for the very first time. He was twelve, wearing a navy suit, hair neatly combed. He looked like a tiny adult who had forgotten how to be a child.

You were sitting under the grand staircase with a sketchbook, drawing princess dresses made of candy wrappers.

He walked past.

Then stopped. and looked down at you.

You froze with your pencil mid-air.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even say a word. He just stared at you for five quiet seconds... long enough for your heartbeat to learn something new, then kept walking.

That night, you tried to draw him.

It was terrible. His head was huge, his body tiny. But you kept the drawing with you like a treasure anyway.

You didn’t know he stopped at the top of the staircase that day, looking back over his shoulder, wondering why a little girl designing candy wrapper dresses felt more alive than the whole house.

National Foundation Day.

It was your first grown-up banquet. You wore a yellow silk sundress embroidered with daisies. Your mother said it made you look “too bright.” Your father said nothing.

Namjoon was also here. He was twenty-one now. Taller... Sharper... Even more handsome in a way that hurt to look at. You saw him from across the ballroom. He was talking to a senator, but your heart already tripped over itself.

When he finally stood alone by the balcony doors, you took a deep breath, lifted your dress slightly so you wouldn’t trip, and walked toward him.

“Hi, Oppa,” you said, trying to sound casual and not like you’d practiced that exact greeting fifty times in the mirror.

He turned.

His eyes skimmed down your yellow sundress… then immediately lifted back to your face.

Too fast. Too controlled.

“Hello,” he said gently, voice and smile polite but distant.

You hated how cold it sounded.

Still, you tried.

“I, um… I saw your speech last week,” you said. “It was really, really good.”

He blinked at you like he wasn’t expecting genuine praise.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Then... “Excuse me.” He stepped around you and walked away.

You stood there alone, gripping your glass so tight your fingers ached.

But.. what you didn’t see was, Namjoon slipped behind a marble pillar twenty feet away, leaned his forehead against the cold stone and whispered under his breath, “…Why did she have to wear yellow? Why did she have to look so bright and cute?”

He stayed there until he calmed his breathing.

Because you were eighteen. And he was twenty one. And he wanted things he absolutely should not want.

At nineteen, you left your hometown to chase your bachelor’s degree—finally free from the suffocating walls of politics and expectations. You ran as far away as your world allowed. Your mother supported your dream.

Into color palettes. Into soft fabrics.

Into a life where people chose you because you made things beautiful, not because you fit into a political chessboard.

Your father fought you for years.

“This career is useless,” he scolded. “You’re embarrassing me.” “Come back and try to join politics.”

You didn’t. You kept sketching. Kept sewing. Kept breathing in a world full of art, not strategies. But when Autumn Festival came around, you had no choice but to return home.

And after a full day of polite smiles, fake compliments, and your father’s constant reminders of “behave,” you needed air. You needed space. You needed escape.

So you slipped away the first chance you got. Straight to the National Assembly library... your secret escape since childhood.

Quiet. Dusty. Safe.

A place where no one asked you to be perfect. A place where you could breathe again. A place filled with old books that smelled like freedom.

You didn’t expect him to be there.

Namjoon was twenty-two, round glasses perched on his nose, surrounded by policy reports. He looked annoyingly attractive in that serious, bookish way.

You hesitated before walking to his table.

“Hi... I didn't expect you here,” you said, softly.

He looked up. And for a second, his expression softened like sunlight touching snow. “You’re home for Chuseok,” he said. It was not a question... cause he already knew.

You nodded. “My house is too loud. I needed to hide.”

He smiled a little at that. “Same.”

You sat across from him.

You talked for forty minutes. Softly. Comfortably. About nothing and everything.

You: “Do you ever get tired of all the grey suits?” Him: “Grey is safe.” You: “Safe is boring.” Him, after a long pause: “…Some of us don’t get to pick exciting.”

At one point, you reached for his pen—even though you had three of your own. Your fingers brushed. He sucked in a sharp breath and pulled his hand back like you’d burned him.

You pretended not to notice.

When you left, he watched you walk all the way to the door. And when the library finally closed, he was still staring at the spot where your fingers had touched his.

Few months later, chairman Kim passed away unexpectedly, it felt like all the color drained from Namjoon’s world.

At the funeral, he stood expressionless. Those deep, thoughtful eyes carried a grief so restrained it almost hurt to look at him. He bowed and thanked guests, all robotic and polite.

It was the first time you saw Namjoon truly break.

You placed a single strawberry candy on the funeral wreath—one he used to give you every weekends.

Namjoon stared at it for a long moment.

When he looked up at you, his eyes were red, his voice rough.

“…Thank you,” he whispered.

You wanted to hug him so badly your chest hurt. But you didn’t. You walked away before you cried.

After that, something hardened inside him. He returned to politics sharper, colder, impossibly composed. He became ice who forgot how to melt.

You approached him once at a diplomatic dinner months later. You wore a dress you designed yourself—lavender silk, soft draping, delicate straps.

Your heart was fluttering like always.

“Oppa… you look thinner,” you said quietly.

“I’m fine.” He replied.

Short. Cold. Clipped.

His eyes flicked away the moment your friend approached.

It hurt. You told yourself he didn’t care. Didn’t feel anything. Never did. But you never knew he went home that night and punched a wall, furious at himself for reacting to you that way.

After that, you stopped trying to get close. He always stepped back anyway. Always kept his distance. Always refused warmth.

To you, it looked like indifference.

But in truth, he kept his distance because you made him feel things... dangerous, irrational things, and in politics, feelings were fatal.

Senior year felt like breathing after holding your lungs tight for ten years. Semester exams were done. Your brain was empty. Your heart finally felt light.

And that night… you wanted to forget everything.

The silver slip dress you wore clung to your skin like moonlight made of silk. You didn’t dress for anyone. You dressed for yourself... for freedom.

“Come on, babe, don’t overthink. Just dance tonight,” your friend Hyejin yelled over the music, pulling you to the center of the crowded Gangnam club.

The bass hit your body first.

The peach soju washed away the last bit of doubt. And the moment you started moving, everything—politics, your father, expectations, Kim Namjoon—blurred into nothing.

Jimin, your classmate, spun you around with a grin.

“You look dangerous tonight,” he joked, laughing.

You rolled your eyes. “Please, I look like someone who needs sleep.”

He laughed louder and pulled you closer. “Lets have fun and just dance before real life crushes you.”

You giggled, letting him guide you. Just harmless fun. Just dancing.

His hands slipped lower on your waist.

You didn’t notice... didn't care... cause he was just a friend. But someone else did.

Namjoon had not planned to stay.

He only came to discuss a campaign donation. He wore a black suit jacket undone, shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked like sin in human form.

He lifted his whisky glass. He was mid-sip when he saw you.

And the world… stopped.

One of the donors said, “Assemblyman Kim, shall we go over the proposal—?”

“Hold on,” Namjoon said without looking away.

Because there you were. Shining... Laughing... Dancing with another man. You spun, silver dress flashing under neon lights. Jimin’s hands settled on your waist.

Namjoon’s fingers tightened around the glass.

He whispered under his breath, “No… absolutely not.”

His jaw flexed. His shoulders locked. He shouldn’t look. He tried not to look. But he failed.

Jimin leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re seriously glowing tonight,” he shouted.

You laughed, warm and drunk. “It’s just glitter! Hyejin dumped half a bottle on me!”

He grinned. “Well, it's working and you are shining.”

You smiled back without thinking.

Namjoon saw that smile. And the way Jimin’s chest pressed to your back and how naturally you leaned into the touch. His heart slammed inside his ribs.

One donor asked, “Kim Namjoon-ssi? Are you listening?”

“No,” he said honestly, eyes locked on the dance floor.

“Namjoon-ssi, about the contribution—”

“Not now,” he said, voice clipped, icy.

He barely heard himself. All he heard was the blood roaring in his ears, one thought slamming over and over.

She’s mine. Why is he touching her? Why is she letting him touch her? Why wasn’t I there first?

Your laughter floated up to the balcony.

Something in him snapped.

Namjoon didn’t let them finish. He stood so fast his chair scraped loud across the marble floor. “Excuse me,” he said sharply. He didn’t wait for an answer.

He was breathing too hard. He reached the middle of the staircase and stopped. His chest hurt with how badly he wanted to drag you away from that boy.

He wanted to storm across the floor. He wanted to pull you into him. He wanted the whole club to see who you belonged to. But then another thought punched him.

She still thinks you don’t want her. She still thinks you’ve never looked at her that way.

He squeezed the railing until the metal groaned.

“Not like this,” he whispered. “Not drunk. Not in a club. Not when she doesn't know.”

He forced himself to turn around. Forced himself to walk back up. Forced himself to finish his drink. The glass cracked in his hand before he even realized he was squeezing it that hard.

Blood dripped down his palm, warm and slow.

He was too busy staring at the back of your silver dress in his mind.

Too busy remembering the very first time he wanted to kiss you—in that stupid yellow sundress years ago. Too busy losing the last bit of restraint he had left.

He left early.

He didn’t trust himself to stay.

Not when he knew exactly how good you’d feel pinned against the wall. Not when he knew exactly how easy it would be to claim your mouth and whisper, “I never stopped wanting you.”

He sat in his car for a long moment, hands shaking on the steering wheel. Then he whispered into the dark. “I’m done waiting.”

Meanwhile, You… You danced until your heels hurt and your hair stuck to your neck. Jimin offered to walk you home.

You shook your head. “I’m fine! Taxi is enough.”

He ruffled your hair. “Your loss.”

You laughed and waved goodbye.

You fell into bed at 4 a.m., cheeks flushed, heartbeat warm, mind airy.

And you didn’t think about Namjoon even once. Because you still believed he didn’t want you. You had no idea that the man you thought was cold and uninterested…

…just walked away because he was terrified he’d kiss you in the middle of a crowded club.

Terrified he’d finally lose control.

And deeply unaware that his control was already gone.

The dining room in your family’s official residence was always cold, even in summer.

Crystal chandelier, long mahogany table, portraits of presidents staring down like they were judging the food.

You were twenty-one, home for the weekend from university, wearing an oversized cream sweater and soft linen pants, hair still damp from the shower.

Your father sat at the head of the table, tie loosened for once but jaw locked tight. The staff brought the food in, quietly as always, never making eye contact. He didn’t let them finish.

He put his phone on the table—flat, heavy, decisive. “We need to talk about your future.”

You paused mid-bite, chopsticks hovering. “My… future?”

You tried to smile. Failed. “Dad, I already told you and mom. I got that internship in Paris. Remember? The eco-fashion collective? They only choose seven people in the whole...”

“I’m not talking about hobbies,” he interrupted, dismissing your dream with one flick of his hand.

You froze. “Hobbies?”

Your chest pinched. “Dad, it’s not a hobby, it’s my—”

“A marriage proposal has come for you and you will marry Assemblyman Choi’s son,” he continued, calm and cold. “Next month. You can finish rest of your last semester from here. I know attendance isn’t mandatory for this semester.”

The words slammed into you like a fist. Your chopsticks slipped and clattered onto the bowl. The sound echoed far too loudly.

“…What?” you whispered.

Your father didn’t flinch. “It’s already arranged. The Chois are powerful allies. This is a good match.”

“No.” You pushed your chair back. “Dad, absolutely not. Minhyuk is—”

“A respectable young man,” he cut in.

“A creep!” Your voice cracked. “He hits on my friends! Last month at the gala he cornered Ji-eun—”

“Rumors,” he snapped. “Girls exaggerate.”

Your jaw dropped. You felt sick.

“Dad, he’s a walking scandal. He literally bragged about cheating on his ex because she was ‘too clingy.’ I’m not marrying a man like that—”

“You will,” he said, slamming his palm on the table.

The glasses jumped. So did you.

“Because I said so.”

“Why won’t you listen to me?” Tears piled hot behind your eyes. “I’m building something. Fashion is important to me. I’m actually good at it—my professor said my designs could get into Seoul Fashion Week...”

“Enough.” His voice boomed. “Stop embarrassing yourself with glitter and fabric scraps. You have my name. That means something. And you will honor it.”

Your throat burned.

“Is that all I am to you?” Your voice trembled. “A tool? A deal? A pretty bargain chip?”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even hesitate.

“You are a disgrace to this family! Wasting your time on useless creative fields... drawing dresses like some starving artist! Do you know how many doors my name opens? And you throw it away for fabric scraps and glitter?”

Tears stung your eyes, hot and angry. “It’s not useless! It’s my life! You never even asked what I want!”

“What you want?” He stood too, towering over the table, face red.

“You want to embarrass me? Parading around in those ridiculous clothes, partying with those artsy nobodies? No daughter of mine will live like that. You will marry Minhyuk. You will smile at events. You will give me grandchildren who will carry this legacy. End of discussion. Or I pull every penny of your tuition, your apartment, your precious little fabric budget. You’ll be on the street by Monday.”

You went still. Absolutely still.

“Dad…” Your voice was barely air. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he said simply. “And I will.”

Then he buttoned his jacket.

“Dinner is over.”

He walked out, door slamming behind him so violently the chandelier trembled. You sat back down slowly, shoulders trembling, tears falling silently into your lap.

You whispered into the empty room, “I hate you… I hate you so much.”

The staff pretended not to hear. But everyone did.

Namjoon’s office was dim, lit only by a desk lamp as he reviewed policies. He’d been working for hours; exhaustion clung to him like smoke.

His chief of staff entered quietly.

“Sir… there’s news. I think you should know.”

Namjoon didn’t look up. “What is it?”

The chief hesitated. “Minister Park just informed Chairman Choi… that his daughter agreed to marry Minhyuk.”

Namjoon’s pen froze mid-sentence.

“…What?” His voice was so low, it barely counted as a word.

“They’re planning the wedding for next month.” Chief replied.

Namjoon slowly lowered his pen, staring at nothing. “She agreed?” he repeated, like he needed confirmation.

“He says so...” The chief nodded, but continued, “... but I heard she was threatened too.”

Snap...

The pen broke clean in half in Namjoon’s hand. Ink bled over his skin, but he didn’t feel it. Namjoon stood abruptly, grabbing his coat.

“Sir... where are you—?”

“Get the car.”

“Sir?”

“Now.” He roared.

He drove faster than he should have through the quiet streets of Seoul. Every muscle in his body was tight. His grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. His jaw was locked so hard it ached.

She agreed? Did she really? I can't believe it... I know her father force her? Does she think she has no choice?

His heart hammered.

He couldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t. He knew your father might have forced you or threatened you.

You were his... No one can dare to touch you... He couldn’t even finish the thought without losing control of the car. He reached your father’s residence in minutes. Security let him in without question.

Your father looked up from his brandy as Namjoon entered unannounced.

“Namjoon,” he said calmly, “it’s very late.”

Namjoon didn’t bow... Didn’t sit... Didn’t even breathe properly.

“I’m here to discuss about your daughter.”

Your father smirked faintly. “You heard the news.”

“I did.” Namjoon stepped closer. “And I’m here to tell you something.”

Your father raised an eyebrow. Namjoon’s voice was steady, but beneath the calm was something dangerous.

“She will not marry Choi Minhyuk.” He pause a beat. “She will marry me.”

The amused expression disappeared from your father’s face. “You’re serious.”

Namjoon’s chest rose and fell once. “Completely.”

Your father set his glass down slowly. “Namjoon… you are an excellent young man. Too excellent for someone like her. You can easily aim for someone from a stronger political family.”

Namjoon’s jaw flexed. “I’m not asking.”

Your father stiffened. “…What did you say?”

Namjoon stepped directly in front of the desk, lowering his voice.

“I’m telling you. I will marry her... Not Choi... No one else... Only Me.”

Your father narrowed his eyes. “And why should I agree to this sudden… demand?”

Namjoon leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. “Because I’m the only man in this country who can give you what Choi never will... stability. Power. Control.”

Your father blinked.

Namjoon continued, tone razor-sharp. “Choi Minhyuk will embarrass you within a year. His scandals will drag your legacy through the dirt. But with me? Your family name becomes untouchable. I don’t lose. I don’t slip. I don’t fail. Tie your daughter to me, and your future is secure.”

Your father stared at him for a long, heavy moment. Then he slowly reached for his phone. “Prepare the marriage documents for Kim Namjoon,” he said into it. “Have them sent to his office by morning.”

Namjoon straightened.

Your father looked up. “The wedding announcement will be next week.”

Namjoon nodded once. “Thank you, Minister.”

He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “One more thing.”

Your father looked up again.

Namjoon’s voice dropped to a quiet, deadly softness.

“If you ever threaten her tuition, her career, or her freedom again, I will personally make sure you spend the rest of your career counting paper clips in a provincial office. Do we understand each other?”

A flicker of fear crossed your father’s face. “…We understand each other.”

“Good.” Namjoon left.

Outside, in the cold night air, he leaned against his car, finally letting the breath he’d been holding escape.

His hands were still stained with broken pen ink.

He closed his eyes, head falling back.

He’d waited eight long years to claim you... Eight years of distance, of control, of swallowing every feeling.

Now? You were finally, undeniably his.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, heart pounding.

“I’m coming for you,” he whispered to the night.

“And this time… I’m not stepping back.”

The hallways smelled like polished wood and ambition.

You didn’t call ahead. You didn’t care that his secretary tried to stop you. You shoved past her, heels clicking like gunshots on the marble, coat half-on, hair wild from the wind outside. You pushed the heavy oak door open so hard it banged against the wall.

Namjoon was standing at the window, phone pressed to his ear, back straight, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He ended the call without turning.

“I wondered how long it would take you to find me,” he said, calm, almost too calm.

You slammed the door behind you. Your hands trembled.

“How dare you,” you said, voice shaking with anger. “How dare you walk into my life like you own it and decide who I marry!”

He finally turned, slowly, eyes unreadable.

“I didn’t decide anything,” he said. Calm. Infuriatingly calm. “Your father did. I just changed the name on the contract.”

Your feet pounded across the floor until you were standing right in front of him, barely an inch apart.

“Who the hell asked you to play hero, Kim Namjoon?” you spat, chest heaving.

He looked down at you, jaw tight. “You preferred Choi Minhyuk?”

The name tasted like poison.

“I prefer no one!” you said. “I want to finish my degree, open my own studio, live my life... my way!”

He chuckled, low and sharp. “And you think your father was going to let you do that?” His eyes darkened. “He would have sold you to the highest bidder the second you walked across that stage. I know it. You know it.”

Your hands flew to his chest, shoving, angry, desperate.

He didn’t budge. Not an inch.

Instead, in a move so fast it stole your breath, he caught your wrists and yanked you toward him. You stumbled, crashing into him, palms flat against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat thundering beneath your fingers.

Your faces were inches apart. His breath brushed your lips... warm, faintly minty, with a rich undertone of coffee that made your stomach clench.

You hated how good he smelled.

You hated how your anger faltered for a split second, leaving your body betraying your mind.

“You should be thanking me,” he said, voice low, rough.

“Thanking you?” you spat, trying to pull away. He didn’t let go. “For what?”

“For saving you from him.” He glanced at your chest, then up at your eyes. “Choi Minhyuk would have destroyed you. Made you quit your passion, smiled at cameras while crying alone in bathrooms. I’ve seen what he does. I’ve seen the bruises he leaves on hearts like yours.”

Your stomach sank.

Namjoon’s voice dropped even lower. “I will never lay a hand on you in anger. I will never ask you to be less than you are.”

He leaned in until his forehead almost touched yours. “With me, you graduate. You design. You travel to Paris, Milan, New York, wherever the hell you want. You keep your name on the label. You keep your freedom.”

His grip loosened, but he didn't let go. “You’ll just have my last name too.”

You trembled. Rage mixed with something hotter, something dangerous.

“And what do you get out of this, Namjoon?” you whispered. “A political boost? Bragging rights? Or… a pretty little trophy wife?”

His jaw flexed.

He let go of one wrist to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone like you were fragile glass. “I get to sleep peacefully at night knowing that you are safe and no one else is touching you.”

The words landed between you, raw and sharp. You sucked in a breath. He saw it, eyes darkening.

Then he stepped back, regaining control.

Cold, smooth control that had nothing to do with kindness.

“Two days,” he said. “Think about it.”

He walked back to his desk. He didn’t glance at you again. You left, shaking, slamming the door behind you.

You drove to your mother’s apartment, the one your father pretended didn’t exist after the divorce. She opened the door in loose silk pajamas, hair falling around her face, eyes tired but alert.

You collapsed into her arms, crying like a child.

When the story spilled out, she didn’t flinch.

She poured chamomile tea, sat you on the couch.

“I married your father because I had no choice. I was young and scared,” she said quietly. “I thought love would grow. It didn’t. Every year, I got smaller.”

She held your hands. “Namjoon… that boy has watched you since you were sixteen. He’s never smiled much, but his eyes… they were always on you. Keeping you safe. Waiting.”

You swallowed hard. “He… he doesn’t even like me.”

“He’s in love with you,” your mother corrected gently.

“He’s giving you a door your father wants to slam shut forever. Take it, baby. You can always choose whatever destination you want later through that door.”

Next Morning, you walked into his office again. The secretary didn’t even try to stop you this time. He was at his desk, pen in hand, signing papers. He looked up as you closed the door softly.

Hands shaking, you forced your voice steady. “I have conditions.”

He leaned back, eyes never leaving yours. “Name them.”

“I finish my degree, my internship. No interference.”

“Done.”

“I keep my studio, my brand, my name on every label.”

“Done.”

“I am not a doll. I will not quit my life to smile next to you at banquets.”

He stood, crossed the desk until he was in front of you. “I don’t want a doll. I want you. Safe and peaceful.”

Your throat tightened. “One more,” you whispered.

He waited.

“If you ever try to control me the way he does—”

“I won’t,” he said, voice steady, eyes locking with yours.

You exhaled, relief, fear, and something wild all at once. “Then… yes.”

For the first time, Kim Namjoon smiled.

A real smile, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.

“You won’t regret this,” he murmured, softer.

You lifted your chin. “I’d better not.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Welcome home, Mrs. Kim.”

You rolled your eyes, heart thundering for a completely different reason. “Technically I’m not Mrs. Anything yet.”

“Give it one month,” he whispered, stepping closer. Close enough that stepping back wasn’t an option anymore.

And for the first time, you didn’t even try to.

The wedding had been quick.

Too quick.

A blur of black suits, white flowers, and your father’s satisfied nods. Nothing warm, nothing soft... just contracts, handshakes, and a single fleeting glance from Namjoon that left your stomach twisting for reasons you couldn’t name yet.

Moving into his penthouse felt like stepping into another world... luxury that almost hurt your eyes, marble floors that echoed every step, and a quiet so deep it was suffocating.

You unpacked in your separate room, the one at the far end of the hall. He had his own, just a few doors away. That night you lay in that big bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn.

You came down the stairs at 9:15 a.m., legs bare in those tiny silk shorts, drowning in your oversized hoodie. You were still sleepy, still warm, still looking like trouble.

He was already at the kitchen island in fresh suit, sleeves rolled up, black coffee steaming beside a tablet full of boring government stuff.

He heard your footsteps. He looked up once... just once, and his eyes stopped dead on your legs.

A quick inhale. A tiny freeze in his action.

Then he ripped his gaze back to the screen like his life depended on it. You shrugged and pretended not to notice.

You grabbed a bowl and poured cereal. The clinking sounded like a loud gunshot in the silent kitchen.

Still, you tried.

“Good morning,” you said softly.

He didn’t look up. Not even a little.

“Morning,” he answered, voice low, careful… like if he looked at you again he would do something stupid.

You sat down three stools away, dramatically... like a queen claiming her territory.

Then… silence. Awkward, heavy, warm silence.

You stared at him. Then at his shoulders. Then at the tiny muscle twitching in his jaw. You lasted forty-three seconds.

“Do you always eat alone?” you blurted, poking at your cereal like it offended you.

He finally glanced at you—this controlled, composed look with eyes that were way too soft for someone pretending not to care.

“I’m used to it,” he said. Not coldly but honestly.

You huffed, stirring your cereal aggressively. “Yeah, well… you have a wife now. So get unused to it.”

His mouth twitched. The closest thing to a smile he’s allowed himself at 9 a.m.

“Noted,” he murmured, voice warm this time.

You tried not to smile.

He tried not to stare at your legs again. Both of you failed.

Soon, he finished his coffee, slipped into his blazer, and paused by the front door. “I’ll be late,” he said. “Long session at the Assembly.”

You nodded, sipping your coffee. “Come home safe.”

He froze for half a second—like the words did something to him, but then he nodded, voice lower now.

“I will.” And then he was gone.

You didn’t see him again for 18 hours, but the warm echo of that tiny, hard-won smile stayed with you the whole day.

It was 6:12 a.m., another morning at house where silence lived more louder than the conversations you two ever had.

It was way too early for your brain to function, but cravings don’t care about sleep schedules. You stood on your toes, tiny cotton shorts riding up your thighs as you reached, struggling—for the top-shelf.

You didn’t hear him come in.

But you felt him first.

A warm breath hit the back of your neck... soft, slow, like he was tasting the moment. You stiffened, fingers curling on the cabinet edge.

And then his bare chest—still faintly damp from his early gym session, pressed against your back.

Hard muscle. Hot skin.

A silent, dangerous wall of him.

He reached past you, arm brushing your cheek, body pinning you to the counter without even touching you intentionally. Your breath caught. He didn’t move away.

For five heavy, stretched-out seconds, the whole world narrowed to heat radiating from his body, your pounding heartbeat, and the thin layer of your shirt separating your spine from his chest.

He spoke low, voice rough with sleep and sweat. “This shelf is too high for you.”

Your throat tightened. “I'll manage.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just lowered the cereal box… slowly… setting it on the counter with deliberate care.

His knuckles skimmed your hip on the way down.

A soft graze. Barely a touch.

But your breath hitched like he’d put his hand under your shirt.

His chest finally pulled away from your back, and you exhaled without knowing you’d been holding anything in.

You turned to face him.

He was already halfway across the kitchen, shoulders stiff, jaw flexing so hard you saw the muscle jump near his cheek. Like he was holding something back. Like touching you, even accidentally, was a test he barely passed.

You opened your mouth to say something but he didn’t look back.

Just tossed over his shoulder, voice low. “You shouldn’t have to struggle for basic things.”

Then he disappeared into his room.

The next morning, you shuffled into the kitchen, hair messy, eyes half-shut and froze.

Everything... Every single thing, was rearranged.

The cereal. The snacks. The spices. The ladles. The jars. All placed lower. All placed where you could reach without stretching.

You blinked, stunned. “This wasn’t like this yesterday…”

You heard his voice behind you, softer this time but with the same deep rumble. “You don’t have to struggle for anything in this house.”

You turned.

He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with those unreadable eyes.

“Why did you…? And when...?” you asked.

His jaw flexed again before he admitted, quietly, “Because I didn’t like seeing you struggle.”

Your heart did a stupid flip.

Every morning started the same way and night ended the same way.

Maybe it was the brush of his fingers against yours when he handed you a glass, the touch so light it felt like an accident but lasted just a second too long.

Maybe it was a care and love hidden under those tiny acts and moments. Or maybe it was the way your eyes met in the dim hallway, his gaze sliding down to your mouth, yours flickering to his collarbone, silence stretching warm and unbearable between you.

Someone always looked away first, pretending nothing had happened… even though you both felt it.

That unfinished moment followed you to your separate rooms, settling under your skin, making the air heavier the next morning. Nothing was ever resolved.

Nothing was ever said.

And every night the tension just… lived there, growing thicker, waiting for one of you to finally stop walking away.

It was supposed to be a quick phone call.

Instead, your father’s voice sliced you open like it always did. “Three months married and not even a single public appearance! Do you want people to talk? Do you want to embarrass me again? And along with me Namjoon too!”

Your throat tightened. “Dad, I’m finishing my degree... I need to submit my designs...”

“Nonsense. Namjoon is being polite, but that doesn't mean you will take advantage of it. He is gonna run for Mayor soon and he needs a proper wife beside him. Get your priorities straight.” He hung up before you could breathe.

You sank onto the cold marble floor of the hallway, hugging your knees, trying to swallow the knot in your chest, but the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable.

You didn’t even hear footsteps.

Just a sudden shadow falling across you.

“Hey…” Namjoon’s voice dipped low, gentle in a way that cut deeper. “Hey. What happened?”

You shook your head, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “It’s nothing. I’m just… being... dramatic.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you so fast it startled you.

“No.” He took your shaking hands, prying them away from your face. “You don’t cry like this unless someone hurt you.”

Your lips parted, breath trembling. “I... I talked to my father.”

Namjoon went still.

His jaw flexed once. Twice. Something dark moved behind his eyes.

“What did he say?” His voice was so calm it was dangerous.

“That I’m… embarrassing him... and you too. That I’m not being a proper wife. That I should forget my stupid degree and—” Your voice cracked.

His thumb brushed a tear off your cheek.

Then another.

Then the next.

“Live your life the way you want,” he whispered, inching closer. “I’ll handle everything else.”

You swallowed, a sob escaping before you could hold it back.

He cupped your face with both hands—warm, large, steady. Your breaths tangled. His forehead almost touched yours.

You could feel his heartbeat.

Fast. Hard. Uncontrolled.

For a moment, you thought he’d kiss you. His eyes flicked to your lips but he stopped himself. Pulled back like your lips were fire.

His hands fell to his lap.

He looked away, breathing unevenly.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t…”

You didn’t understand what he meant cause he never completed the sentence. You only knew your chest hurt when he stood up and helped you to your feet, careful not to touch you too long.

“Let me take care of my campaigns,” he said gently. “You focus on your dreams.”

You nodded, thinking he was just being kind.

He walked away with fists clenched, jaw locked, like he was punishing himself for wanting you too much.

A week later, you were hunched over your laptop in the living room, surrounded by fabric swatches and sketches. Your leg bounced restlessly, your teeth worrying your bottom lip.

You didn’t hear him come in until he spoke. “You’re overthinking.”

You jumped. “Uh... I’m working.”

“Torturing yourself isn’t the same thing,” he replied calmly, sliding his hands into his pockets as he walked closer.

You glared. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His voice was unshakeably gentle. “Tell me what you are struggling with. Tell me what you need.”

You shook your head. “Materials. But the supplier is out. And the backup is too expensive. And the design idea is good but I can’t finalize it because the fabric isn’t right and—”

“Okay.” He stopped in front of you, lowering his voice. “Slow down. Which materials?”

You blinked, surprisingly.

He listened as you rambled, your hands moving animatedly, describing textures, cuts, colors, structure.

He didn’t interrupt. Not once.

He looked at you like the world’s gone quiet and you’re the only thing worth hearing.

Hours later, when you stepped out of the bathroom after a shower, you noticed boxes stacked neatly by the wall.

Your heart stopped.

Everything you mentioned. Even the items you said were “impossible to get at very short notice.”

You found him in the hallway, sleeves rolled up, opening the last box.

“You did all this?” you whispered.

“I told you,” he said without looking up, “I’ll handle everything else. And I hate seeing you struggle.”

The next morning, he led you to a door you had never opened.

Inside?

A full studio. Your dream studio.

Tailored exactly to the way you work.

You turned to him, stunned. “Namjoon… this is—this is too much.”

“No,” he said, meeting your eyes steadily. “It’s not enough.”

You swallowed hard.

He stepped closer, gaze gentle. “You deserve space to build your future. You’re not supposed to fit your dreams into a corner of the living room.”

Your chest tightened. “You made this… for me?”

“I made it because I like watching you work,” he said, then immediately looked away like he didn’t mean to be that honest. “It—uh—it’s important to you. That’s all.”

But you heard it.

Two weeks later, everything had blown up—posters everywhere, meetings stacked on meetings until he was nothing but a shadow passing through the house. You hardly saw him anymore... except in the quiet hours of the morning.

And the day he officially filed his candidacy, you dressed him in the first suit you’d finished for him.

A midnight–navy wool-silk… smooth, rich, beautiful with hand-stitched lapels. A thin silver pinstripe that showed only when he moved.

He looked unreal in it. But you pretended you weren’t staring.

He stood in the center of your studio like a perfectly-behaved mannequin, while you circled him with pins in your teeth and your heart somewhere in your throat.

“Arms up,” you said, tapping his elbow.

He lifted them instantly. No hesitation. No argument. Just complete obedience to your soft little command.

You pretended it didn’t affect you.

He watched you in the studio mirror, eyes following every move you made.

Your palm slid over his shoulder, smoothing the fabric. You stepped closer, fingertips smoothing down the length of his bicep, then flattening the jacket across his chest.

His chest was warm. His heartbeat was fast.

You tried to pretend you didn’t notice.

“Is it too tight here?” you asked softly, pressing your hand over his heart to check the fit.

A low sound escaped him... half-laugh, half something else. His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror.

“If it were any looser,” he said, “I’d look like I borrowed my father’s suit.”

You smiled under your breath and moved behind him to check the vents. Your hands skimmed lightly along his waist to adjust the back seam.

He inhaled sharply—so sharply that you felt it through the fabric.

“Stop moving,” you scolded, nudging him with your knee.

“Believe me,” he muttered, “I’m trying.”

You stepped to his front again, reaching for the tie you dyed yourself—a deep burgundy that warmed against his skin. You slid it under his collar, your knuckles brushing his throat.

He swallowed. You felt everything.

“Hold still,” you whispered.

He didn’t. He swayed almost imperceptibly closer.

You tied the knot slowly, adjusting it until it sat perfectly. Your hand smoothed down the tie, down the firm line of his chest… and lingered over his heart again without meaning to.

Your voice dropped. “There. You look…”

You swallowed the rest.

He turned his head, meeting your eyes through the mirror like the way a man does when he’s trying very hard not to cross a line.

“How do I look?” he asked, voice deep and rough.

You let out a shaky breath. “Like you’re going to win.”

His eyes dropped immediately to your mouth. “And if I do win?”

You stepped back a tiny bit—barely an inch. “Then the city gets a mayor who dresses well.”

He gave a soft, humorless laugh, like it hurt him. “That’s all?”

Your fingers were still brushing his chest, even though you were trying to drag them away. His heartbeat was wild under your palm—louder, faster, like he was afraid you’d hear everything he’d been holding back.

“Mhmm...,” you said quietly.

He closed his eyes for a second, breathing like he needed to calm himself, then stepped back with visible effort. His hands clenched at his sides.

“One more month,” he told himself in mind, almost like a promise. “Just one more month…”

He left before you could say anything further, afraid he’d grab you, afraid he’d kiss you, afraid he’d ruin the careful control he’d been holding onto.

You watched him on the television from your new studio—half-finished sketches on the table, fabric scissors forgotten in your hand.

He stepped onto the stage for his first town-hall speech wearing the suit you made for him.

Under the bright lights, the midnight navy shimmered. Every turn caught the silver pinstripe. The burgundy tie glowed against his throat.

He looked powerful... Confident... And heartbreakingly handsome.

A reporter leaned forward. “Mr. Kim, your suit looks fantastic today. It's different than what you usually wear. May we ask who designed it?”

He smiled—small, soft, secret.

“My wife,” he said.

Those two words hit you harder than the studio lights above you. You felt your breath catch, your chest tighten, your heart race against your ribs.

He said it with pride. With ownership.

With something warm and protective in his voice that made your knees weak.

You pressed a hand to your chest as he continued speaking on screen, his voice steady and strong. But all you could hear was the smile in his voice when he said it.

My wife.

You’d promised one night for yourself before finals took over everything. Just one night to forget the weight on your shoulders. One night to laugh with the friends who pulled you out of the suffocating world of politics and lit up your college days.

One last night before all of you drifted toward your own futures.

So you went out with your friends to a rooftop bar in Itaewon—fairy lights hanging above you, cheap cocktails in plastic cups, music loud enough that your overthinking finally shut up for a few hours.

Jungkook, your playful, chaotic friend, offered to drive you home when your cab cancelled. At 2:13 a.m., his matte-black Jeep stopped in front of the entrance to the penthouse.

You leaned over the console to side-hug him, laughing at something stupid he had said. “Thanks for the ride, Kook. Seriously.”

He hugged you back briefly and grinned. “Anytime. Text me when you’re alive tomorrow.”

You hopped out, still giggling, hair messy, heels dangling from your fingers.

You didn’t know someone else had watched the entire thing.

Namjoon had been pacing the living room for two full hours, phone in hand, pretending he wasn’t waiting for you. He saw the hug. He saw you smiling. He saw another man’s hands around you.

And something inside him burned.

The moment Jungkook’s car drove off, you stepped inside—humming softly, completely unaware of the storm brewing for you.

You stopped dead.

Namjoon stood in the dark living room, facing the window, the city lights outlining his tall frame. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly wild like he had been dragging his fingers through it.

His voice cut through the darkness like a knife. “You should have told me you’d be late.”

Your heart jumped. “God, Namjoon. Don’t stand in the dark like that. It’s creepy.”

“I wasn’t trying to scare you,” he said without turning. “I was waiting.”

“For what?” you asked, dropping your heels by the door.

“For you,” he said simply.

You blinked. “I texted you. You didn’t reply.”

He finally turned toward you. His eyes were sharp. “I was in a strategy meeting until 11.”

You let out a breath. “Okay… then what’s the problem?”

He stepped forward. Slowly. Controlled.

But his jaw was tight, and you saw the muscle tick.

“The problem,” he said softly, “is coming home and watching some guy put his hands on my wife.”

Your lips parted. “Jungkook just hugged me. He was driving me home...”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It DOES matter. He’s my friend!”

“I don’t care,” Namjoon growled, taking another step. “I don’t care about him. I care that his hands were on you. I care that you were laughing in his car. I care that you didn’t tell me you’d be with him that late.”

You stared at him, stunned.

Then a sharp, humorless laugh escaped you.

“You don’t get to be jealous,” you said. “You don’t even TOUCH me, Namjoon. You barely LOOK at me. You treat me like a roommate you’re forced to live with—”

His voice cracked open, raw and ragged. “Because I’m trying not to ruin you before you graduate.”

The room fell silent. You swallowed, the anger melting into hurt.

“Then why... why do you act like you don’t want me?” Your voice shook. “Every time I get close, you step away. We sleep in separate rooms. You treat me like I’m made of glass. You don’t even love me. You’re just stuck with me. So why the hell do you care who drops me home?”

Something inside him broke. You could feel it.

He moved faster than you could process.

In two strides, he had you caged against the wall, his hands on either side of your head, chest rising and falling, breath shaking.

He wasn’t touching you. But the air between you felt electric.

His voice was low, furious, trembling. “You think I don’t want you?”

Your breath stopped.

He leaned closer, lips almost brushing your cheek.

“I have wanted you,” he whispered, “since you were sixteen and I was nineteen. And it was wrong. It was illegal. And I hated myself every single day for it.”

Your eyes widened, heart slamming against your ribs.

He continued, voice breaking, “I married you because the thought of another men breathing near you made me want to burn the world down. I married you so no one else ever would.”

His forehead pressed gently against yours. His whole body shook with restraint.

“I count the hours until your graduation,” he murmured, “because if I touch you now... if I kiss you now—I’m afraid I won’t let you leave that bed for days.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer until your lips hovered an inch from his.

“Then stop being fucking coward,” you whispered.

“I’m twenty-two. I’ve been yours on paper for three months and yours in every way that matters. So fucking show me. I’m not a kid anymore.”

His breath hitched. His grip tightened on the wall. His eyes dropped to your lips like he was starving.

And that was the moment... everything snapped inside him.

He made a sound you’d never heard from him before—half-groan, half-growl, like something wild had finally been let out of its cage.

Then his mouth crashed onto yours. There was nothing soft about it.

No pause. No hesitation.

Just years of hunger slamming into you all at once.

His lips were hot, desperate, almost angry with how long he’d held himself back. Your teeth bumped, your tongues tangled, breath mixing in messy gasps that tasted like whiskey, jealousy, and every held-back fantasy he’d buried for years.

You moaned into him... high, needy—and he swallowed the sound like he’d been starving for it. His hand slid into your hair, fingers curling tight, controlling your head with an ease that sent heat pooling between your legs.

The other hand grabbed your thigh, hauled it up around his hip, dragging you flush against the thick, hard heat straining against his slacks.

His hips rolled, rough and frustrated.

“Fuck…” he breathed against your lips, voice torn open. “Feel that? That’s what you’ve been doing to me for years, sweetheart. Every damn day.”

You couldn’t even speak.

Your hands were shaking as you grabbed at his shirt, popping buttons, pushing fabric aside until your palms met his bare chest.

Hot. Solid. Trembling.

His heart hammered so hard you felt it against your fingers.

He groaned—a deep, broken sound, and dropped his mouth to your neck. The first kiss was hot. The second was harder. Then he sucked, teeth dragging, leaving a mark that made your knees almost give out.

“Tell me to stop,” he gasped against your skin. He was breathing like he’d run miles. “If you say stop, I swear to God I will. But this is the last time I’m asking you. Last chance, baby...”

“Don’t you dare,” you panted, nails dragging down his back hard enough to make him hiss. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

Something in him snapped clean in half.

He spun you so fast you gasped, your back hitting the wall as his body pressed into yours from behind. His mouth found the nape of your neck, kissing, biting, breathing you in like he’d been drowning in restraint.

His hands slid under your cropped sweater, warm palms gliding over your stomach, up your ribs, until they cupped your breasts completely. He groaned into your skin as his thumbs brushed your nipples through the lace—slow first, then firmer when he felt you shaking.

“God,” he whispered, voice shaking, “I dreamed about this. I dreamed about touching you like this. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You arched back, grinding against the hard line of his cock. He cursed—low, filthy, helpless.

“Baby…” he rasped, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath hot on your skin. “If you do that again, I’m gonna lose every bit of control I have left.”

You did it again.

And he broke all over you.

“These clothes,” he snarled, yanking your sweater over your head, bra following in one impatient tug. Cool air hit your skin and then his mouth was on your shoulder, your spine, licking a hot path downward as he dropped to his knees behind you.

He spun you so fast the room tilted, hands rough on your hips as he folded you forward, palms slamming flat against the wall for balance. Your skirt was already bunched at your waist, panties dangling uselessly around one ankle now.

Cool air kissed your soaked skin for half a second, and then his mouth was on you, no warning, no mercy.

“OW... FUCK... Namjoon—”

He groaned, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating straight through your core. “Fuck, you taste better than I dreamed,” he rasped, voice muffled against you. “So fucking sweet.”

Another long, deliberate lick, slower this time, flattening his tongue so he could feel every shudder that rolled through you. When he reached your clit he circled it once, twice, then sucked it between his lips, hard.

Your knees buckled.

You would’ve hit the floor if his hands weren’t gripping your hips like iron.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Legs open. Let me eat this pretty pussy the way I’ve been dying to for months.”

He spread you wider with his thumbs, exposing you completely, and dove back in. This time his tongue speared inside you, thrusting deep, curling, fucking into you like he couldn’t get far enough.

You felt the wet drag of it, the obscene sounds of him drinking you down echoing off the walls.

“Namjoon... oh god—”

You whimpered, pushing back against his face shamelessly.

He moaned again, louder, the vibration making you clench around nothing. “That’s it,” he growled. “Fuck yourself on my tongue. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

You did, rocking back, chasing his mouth.

He let you for three desperate strokes, then took control again, tongue flicking fast over your clit, relentless, before sucking it hard enough that stars burst behind your eyes.

“Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name,” he promised, words slurred against your slick folds. “Then I’m gonna do it again with my cock.”

Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling hard, and you cried out, palms slapping the wall for balance.

“So wet,” he growled, voice muffled against your skin. “Been wet for me for months, haven’t you?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—” You clenched around his fingers so hard.

“Come for me, baby,” he demanded, voice raw. “Come all over my face, right now, let me taste it...”

The orgasm crashed over you so hard you screamed, thighs clamping around his head, hips jerking helplessly as wave after wave tore through you.

He didn’t stop, just kept licking, gentler now, drawing it out until you were sobbing from overstimulation, pushing weakly at his forehead.

Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, eyes black with lust, your wetness glistening on his chin. He stood slowly, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip like he was savoring the taste.

“Turn around,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

He made you stand in one motion, spinning you again to face him. His belt clinked open, zipper rasping down. You reached for him desperately, fingers wrapping around his cock... hot, thick, leaking—and he hissed, head falling back.

Your back hit the wall again as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, slick and burning.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice shaking.

You did.

His eyes were wild, pupils blown, lips swollen from your kisses. Sweat glistened at his temple.

“I love you,” he said, raw and reverent. “I love you so much it’s fucking killing me.”

Then he pushed in... one long, slow, devastating thrust that stretched you open and seated him to the hilt. You both froze, trembling, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air.

He didn’t move yet.

Just held you there, buried deep, pulsing inside you.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I’m yours,” you breathed. “Always was.”

His control snapped a second time.

He pulled back and slammed inside again, hard enough that your moan cracked in half.

“Fuck—” you sobbed, head banging back against the wall.

Namjoon didn’t give you time to breathe.

He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward with wet, filthy slaps of skin on skin, the wall trembling behind you with every relentless drive. Each stroke dragged the ridge of his cock over that spot inside you that made your vision spark white, made your toes curl.

Your nails raked down his shoulders, carved burning lines across his back, and he hissed through his teeth, fucking you harder.

“Like that?” he growled against your ear, voice ragged. “You want it rough, baby? Been dreaming about splitting this tight little pussy open for years.”

“Yes—yes... Fuck... harder—” you chanted, barely sane.

He shoved one hand between your sweat-slick bodies, fingers finding your clit, swollen and slick, and started rubbing fast, merciless circles that matched the brutal pace of his cock.

“Listen to you,” he rasped, breath scorching your throat. “Listen to how wet you are for me. Can hear it every time I fuck into you—soaked down my balls, dripping on the floor.”

The obscene sound of it filled the room... slick, rhythmic, filthy, mixed with your broken moans and his low, animal groans.

“Namjoon—please—”

“Please what?” He slowed just enough to grind deep, rolling his hips so the head of his cock pressed hard against your wall, making you see stars. “Tell me what you need.”

You clawed at his back again, legs shaking around his waist. “Make me come... want to come on your cock... please—”

He snarled, snapped his hips faster, fingers working your clit in tight, ruthless circles. “Gonna give you everything,” he promised, voice cracking. “Gonna fill this pussy up so good you’ll feel me for days. Every time you move tomorrow you’ll remember who you belong to.”

The pressure coiled viciously tight, your walls fluttering around him.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, dark and filthy. “Squeeze me... fuck... milk my cock, baby, show me how much you love this—”

His fingers pressed harder, rubbing side-to-side now, fast and perfect, and you shattered.

The orgasm hit you sooner than earlier, ripping a scream from your throat as you clenched around him, vision whiting out.

He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a broken groan of your name.

You stayed locked together, shaking, sweat-slick, his cock still twitching deep inside you, your legs trembling around his waist.

After a long moment he lifted his head, eyes soft now, almost scared.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. “I lost it. Did I hurt you?”

You laughed, breathless and wrecked. “You better do that again in approximately five minutes.”

Relief flooded his face.

He kissed you slow this time, tender, like he was memorising the taste. “Bedroom,” he murmured against your lips. “Now. I’m nowhere near done proving how much I love you.”

He carried you there without pulling out, your bodies still joined, and kicked the door shut behind you.

Neither of you slept that night.

The gala felt unreal.

It was Namjoon’s first major campaign event after your graduation, and he stood in the centre of the room in the deep wine-coloured suit you had made with your own hands. The silk lapels caught the light every time he moved.

He looked powerful. He looked calm.

He looked like the future of the city.

And he looked like yours.

You stood half a step behind him in your backless blood red dress, silk flowing around your legs like spilled wine. The diamond choker around your throat glimmered with each breath.

Namjoon had clasped it himself before you left, his fingers warm on your skin, his lips brushing the nape of your neck as he whispered, “Perfect.”

You had felt warm and proud and so unbelievably happy.

Until she arrived.

Councilwoman Lee Soojin.

Young. Elegant. Confident. And very aware of her beauty.

She moved through the crowd like she owned the floor, eyes locked on Namjoon before she even reached him.

“Mayor-to-be,” she said in a silky voice, placing her hand on his forearm like it was a habit. “You absolutely must tell me who designed this suit. It should be illegal to look this good.”

Her fingers travelled along the lapel, far too close to his throat.

You felt heat rise in your chest.

Namjoon stiffened almost instantly. His smile froze into something polite and cold.

“My wife designed it,” he said, turning slightly so he could gesture toward you. He said it calmly, proudly, like there was never any question.

Soojin’s gaze flicked to you... one quick, dismissive glance, before she turned back to him as if you were decoration.

“Well,” she said with a soft laugh, “she must have measured every inch of you very carefully. It fits you perfectly.”

Your hand tightened around your champagne flute.

Namjoon’s jaw tightened in the way you knew meant he was seconds from snapping.

You stepped forward before he could.

“Every inch,” you said sweetly, letting your voice glide like honey over steel. “Twice, actually.”

Soojin blinked, startled.

You slid your arm through Namjoon’s, pressing your palm firmly against his chest. “Enjoy your evening, Councilwoman.”

She stepped back. Her smile finally cracked.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. But his heart was slamming against your palm like a drum.

He stayed silent the entire walk to the car.

The drive through Gangnam was a slow burn.

Neon lights flashed across the windshield, slicing across the tense air between you. The city looked alive outside, but inside the car everything was quiet and heavy.

Namjoon drove himself tonight.

No driver. No witnesses. No escape.

You sat with your arms crossed, face turned toward the window, trying not to show how furious and jealous and stupidly, painfully in love you felt.

He kept glancing at you.

Once. Twice. Every few seconds.

“Baby—” he tried.

“Don’t,” you said sharply.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking wrecked. “I didn’t like how her hand...”

“I said don’t.”

Your cheeks were flushed, chest rising and falling, your lipstick bitten off from how hard your teeth dug into your lip.

And Namjoon?

He looked like he was seconds away from either apologising or pulling over and kissing the breath out of you.

At the next red light, he reached over... slowly, as if not to startle you. His hand brushed the seatbelt strap across your chest… sliding down to adjust it.

Completely innocent. Until it wasn’t.

His knuckles grazed the soft swell of your breast. His hand paused.

Your breath caught.

His fingers stayed there—just barely—but enough to make your entire body tighten.

“Namjoon,” you warned, voice low, trembling.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even blink.

Green light.

He jerked his hand back and accelerated, jaw clenched so tight you could see the strain in his neck.

Next red light.

You unbuckled your seatbelt.

His head whipped toward you instantly. “Baby… what are you—”

You didn’t wait.

You climbed onto his lap in one smooth, furious motion. Silk sliding, your dress riding up, knees pressing into the narrow space between the seat and the console.

His hands snapped to your waist on instinct, eyes wide, breath gone.

“Drive,” you ordered when lights turned green, voice shaking with possessiveness, like you ruled the whole damn city.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His body reacted before his mind did, hardening against you inside his suit pants.

“B-Baby…” he breathed.

You rolled your hips once—a slow, deliberate grind that made him choke.

His head fell back against the seat with a thud. “F-Fuck...”

“You’re mine,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “How dare she flirt with you? No one touches you. No one leans in like that. No one puts their hands on what belongs to me.”

You bit his earlobe... hard enough to make his breath shatter. He jolted, hips bucking up helplessly.

“Say it,” you demanded softly. “Say you’re mine.”

His answer came without hesitation, voice raw.

“I’m yours... Babe,” he rasped. “Only yours. Always. I swear... no one else even exists to me.”

You started grinding.

Slow, deliberate, filthy circles that dragged the soaked lace of your panties over the thick line straining his trousers.

The friction was perfect, maddening, every roll of your hips grinding your clit against the rigid line of him until your breath came in sharp little gasps.

Namjoon’s head fell back against the headrest with a thud, throat bared, Adam’s apple working as a broken sound tore out of him, half groan, half prayer.

“Fuck… just like that,” he rasped, voice shredded.

“Keep moving on me, baby. Make me feel who I belong to.”

You leaned in, lips brushing the frantic pulse hammering under his jaw. “Gonna leave marks,” you whispered, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin. “So tomorrow, when she sees you again, she’ll see my marks all over you.”

His answering growl was feral. “Do it. Mark me so deep I feel you for days. Want the whole fucking world to know I’m taken.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You latched onto the spot just below his ear, sucked hard, teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting.

Then lower, yanked his collar aside with impatient fingers, buttons straining, and sealed your mouth over his pulse. You sucked until you felt the skin give, until the hickey swelled hot and purple under your tongue.

His cock jerked against your clit, a fresh flood of wetness soaking through your panties onto his trousers.

You pulled back just enough to admire your work, lips swollen, eyes glittering. “Sensitive here, husband?” you purred, tracing the fresh bruise with your thumb.

He laughed, breathless, wrecked. “Only when it’s you.”

You rewarded him by grinding down in one slow, torturous circle, dragging the lace seam right over the head of his cock. His hips snapped up to meet you, chasing the pressure.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’re soaked. I can feel you through my suit. Gonna ruin these trousers, baby?”

“Good... I can design 10 more,” you whispered, nails raking down his chest, catching on the buttons.

His hands slid from your hips to your ass, fingers digging in, spreading you wider so you could feel every inch of him.

“Take whatever you want,” he said, voice raw and desperate. “Use me. I’m yours, every part of me, fucking take it.”

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He jerked the wheel, turned into a narrow service alley behind closed boutiques, cut the engine.

City sounds disappeared.

Only your breathing and the soft tick of cooling metal. He stared at you... eyes black, chest heaving. You didn’t wait.

You finally attacked his mouth, teeth scraping, tongue sliding deep, pure, feral possession. He met you with the same violence, one hand fisting your hair, the other already shoving under the silk of your dress, fingers sinking into the bare skin of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he snarled against your lips, “do it. Take me. Right here.”

Your hands dropped to his belt... metal clinking, leather whipping free. You tore the zipper down, reached inside, wrapped your fingers around him.

He was scorching.

Thick, pulsing, slick with precum that smeared over your palm as you pulled him free.

“F-Fuck—” His head slammed back against the headrest.

“Look at you,” you whispered, stroking once, slow and firm, thumb circling the wet tip.

“So fucking hard for your wife.” You leaned in, voice poison-sweet. “Did you like her fingers on your arm, Namjoon? Did it feel good when she laughed while standing too close?”

“No,” he growled, hips already fucking into your fist, frantic. “Only want you. Only ever you. Swear to God...”

You squeezed, just hard enough to make him choke on the words.

“Then prove it.”

You shifted, shoved the soaked lace of your panties aside with trembling fingers, and lined him up.

Just the head. One cruel inch.

You sank down.

His groan was guttural, broken, hands flying to your hips like he was trying to stop himself from slamming you down the rest of the way.

“Wait... fuck... baby—”

You didn’t wait.

You took him in one slow, relentless glide until he was buried to the root, stretching you open, filling you so perfectly your vision blurred.

“Holy shit...” His voice cracked. “So tight... so fucking perfect—”

You rolled your hips once, slow and deep, clit grinding against the base of him.

“Mine,” you breathed against his mouth, starting to ride him in deliberate, punishing strokes. Every downward slide took him to the hilt... every upward drag tore a curse from his throat. “This cock is mine. This body is mine. These sounds—”

“Yours,” he panted, fingers bruising your ass as he guided you harder, faster. “All yours... fuck... take it, take everything—”

You found the angle that made you see stars and ground down, circling, owning.

He lost it.

One hand shot up, fisted the front of your dress, and ripped.

Silk tore with a sharp, satisfying sound. Cool air hit your skin and then his mouth was on your breast, hot and wet, sucking your nipple hard enough to make you cry out.

“N-Namjoon—Yes... Fuck!”

He growled around the sensitive peak, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, while his hips snapped up to meet every roll of yours. The car rocked violently, windows completely fogged.

“Say it again,” he rasped, switching to the other breast, leaving it swollen and shining. “Tell me who I belong to.”

“You’re mine,” you moaned, nails raking down his scalp, holding him to your chest. “Only mine. No one else gets this—no one else gets to hear you fall apart...”

He released your nipple with a wet pop, head falling back, throat exposed, sweat glistening in the hollow of his collarbone.

“Never,” he swore, voice shredded. “Never wanted anyone the way I want you. Fuck... look at me.”

You did.

His eyes were wild, wrecked, completely gone for you.

“I love you,” he said, raw and desperate, hips still driving up into you. “Love you so much it fucking hurts. Want you on me, in me, around me.. always—”

The words snapped the last thread of your control.

You slammed down hard, grinding in tight circles, clit dragging against him with every thrust. The pleasure coiled vicious and bright.

“Come inside me,” you ordered, voice trembling on the edge. “Right now. Want to feel you lose it while I’m wrapped around you.”

He groaned your name, hands forcing you down one final time as he erupted... hot, thick pulses flooding you, cock jerking deep inside as he came apart with a broken groan.

The feeling of him spilling pushed you over.

You shattered, walls clamping down, milking him through it, your own release crashing so hard your vision whited out.

The car was a haze of sex and shattered breathing.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, your heartbeats thumping in the same fast rhythm. His arms wrapped around you instantly, strong and warm, like he wanted to keep you pressed to him forever.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, kissing the warm skin there, brushing your lips over the marks you’d left in the heat of the moment. Your voice came out softer now, almost tender.

“No one touches you like that,” you whispered. “No one gets you like that. Only me. Understand?”

He let out a weak laugh... the kind that sounded breathless and almost shy, but so, so happy. “Understood, Mrs. Kim,” he murmured, and you felt his smile against your hair.

His fingers slid slowly down your spine, not rushing, just tracing you like he was memorizing every inch.

Then his lips brushed the top of your head.

“I love it when you’re jealous,” he confessed quietly. “I love knowing you want me just as much as I want you. It… does something to me.”

Your lips curved into a smile against his skin.

“Then get used to it,” you said softly.

He tipped your chin up with two fingers, guiding your face to his. His kiss was slow this time.... deep, sweet, almost fragile.

Like he was pouring his whole heart into it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Good,” he said softly. “Because I’ve been yours since the day you spilled acrylic paint on my shoes at sixteen just to get my attention.”

You froze.

Your mouth slowly opened.

“You… you knew I did that on purpose?”

He smiled—the soft, shy kind he never showed anyone else. “Baby… you looked up at me like I hung the moon. How could I not know?”

Your chest tightened, emotion swelling painfully.

After several long minutes of quiet breathing and soft touches, he whispered, “Stay still.”

You blinked up at him. “Why?”

He shrugged out of his blazer and wrapped it around you carefully, covering the torn front of your dress with slow, protective hands.

“Let’s go home,” he said gently, touching your cheek with the back of his hand.

And as he pulled the car back onto the road, both of you wrapped in each other’s warmth and outside, Seoul kept passing by in streaks of neon and streetlight.

Sunlight spilled gold across the sheets.

You were tangled in Namjoon’s arms, face buried in his neck, one of your legs thrown over his hip, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your ass like it belonged there... because it did.

He stirred first, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Baby,” he whispered, voice gravel-rough from sleep. “I have to get up. Assembly budget meeting at nine.”

You made a small, wounded sound and tightened your arms around his neck. “No. Stay… I wish we could stay like this the whole day.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “You know we can’t. I have a meeting at the assembly…”

You nuzzled closer, lips brushing his throat. “Mhmm… just five minutes…”

He didn’t argue. He never could when you asked like that. Instead he rolled you both so you were fully on top of him, your hair spilling over his shoulders like silk.

His palms slid up your bare back, tracing lazy circles.

“Why so clingy today, Mrs. Kim?” he murmured, thumb brushing your spine. “What’s going on in that pretty head?”

You hesitated for too long.

He noticed instantly. His fingers stilled. His eyes searched your face.

“What happened?”

You lifted your head, biting your lip.

“I got the letter yesterday,” you whispered. “The internship… in Paris. Starting next week.”

The room went perfectly still. His arms locked around you tightly. “How long?” he asked, voice suddenly careful.

“Three months.”

He exhaled, long and slow, and stared at the ceiling.

You felt his heart hammer against your chest. Then, without a word, he reached for his phone on the nightstand. You watched, confused, as he dialled.

You blinked. “Joon… what are you doing?”

“Calling in sick,” he said simply, already dialling.

Your mouth fell open. “What?! You never call in sick... Wait... Stop—”

“Hyung,” he said into the phone the moment it was answered, “I’m not coming in. Fever. Cancel the meetings, reschedule everything. All of it. I’ll update you tomorrow.”

He hung up.

You stared at him. “You actually did that?”

He tossed the phone aside like it meant nothing and flipped you beneath him in one smooth, warm, authoritative motion.

His body hovered over yours. “Of course I did.”

“I can’t stop you from going,” he said, voice low, serious. “And I won’t. I told you the day we got married... I never want you as a trophy wife. I want you chasing every dream you have, even if it takes you across the world.”

He brushed your hair back, eyes fierce.

“But the next three months are going to be hell for me. Campaign, debates, polls… and you won’t be here. So today...” he kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips, “...today is ours. I’m not letting anyone else take a single second from us.”

You laughed through the sudden tears. “You really want me to go?”

He smiled... small, pained, proud.

“I’m proud of you,” he said fiercely.

“I want you to fly. And when you come back, I’ll be waiting exactly like this. Besides... his grin turned wicked, “...I’m going to wear the suits you designed for every single campaign stop. They’re my lucky charm and I'll feel you close.”

You leaned up and kissed him softly.

He kissed back slowly, deeply… then broke away to stare at you with an expression you’d never seen before.

“Can I tell you something? The things you never knew... The things that I kept hidden for so long under my cold personality.” he whispered.

You nodded.

He exhaled shakily. “I wanted to kiss you senseless years ago.”

Your brows furrowed. “When?”

His eyes softened as memory pulled at him. “That day you came to the banquet wearing that yellow sundress. You remember? You came to me and praised me for my speech…”

He shook his head, almost embarrassed. “You looked so bright I swear it hurt to look at you. All I could think was... if I kiss her right now, I won’t stop.”

Your heart thudded. “Namjoon…”

“And the library,” he continued, voice getting lower, warmer. “When you reached for the pen and your fingers brushed mine… later you walked away like nothing happened.”

You blinked. “But back then... I thought you were not into me—”

“No... that's not true.” he said. “I stared at my hand the entire damn night like a teenager. I didn’t sleep. I kept touching the spot where your fingers brushed.”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t done.

“And at my father’s funeral…” His voice cracked—the memory still sharp. “I saw you standing with that candy.”

You swallowed. “I... I wanted to hug you. But there were reporters and people—”

He shook his head. “Baby… I wanted to walk straight to you. Fall on my knees. Put my head in your lap and cry like a child. You were the only person I wanted that day.”

Your chest tightened with something fierce and tender.

“Joon… I promise... You will always have me by your side.”

You lifted your arms around his neck and pulled him down until your foreheads touched again.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His smile was pure devotion. “I love you more. Now come here...” He slid his hands down your sides, gripping your hips.

“...we have only one day to make up for ninety nights.”

Three Months Later... Jamsil Stadium.

Forty thousand people... Cameras everywhere... Screens lit up with Namjoon’s face. He stood at the podium, looking powerful, calm, every inch the man Seoul had placed its faith in.

“And together...” he said, voice rolling through the speakers like thunder, “...we will build a Seoul where—”

His breath caught.

Because he saw you.

You’d just arrived from Paris, suitcase still in the car, still wearing the cream coat you’d left in. Your hair was a little longer now, your eyes a little tired but glowing, and you stood at the very back of the VIP section.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

The crowd went silent, confused.

Then he smiled. That helpless, warm, completely ruined by you smile. He cleared his throat, trying to recover.

His voice softened as he continued, almost trembling... “…a Seoul where every dream...” His eyes stayed on you. “...no matter how far it takes you… always finds its way home.”

He drew a steady breath and continued, voice rising with purpose— “A Seoul where every citizen has the chance to work with dignity, where passion and opportunity isn’t a privilege but a right, and where our growth is shared... not by a few, but by all.”

The crowd roared, moved by the promise. People didn’t know why the line hit so hard.

But you did. And he did.

The stadium erupted, forty thousand people screaming his name. He won by a landslide. But the only victory that mattered walked back into his life was wearing a cream coat and tired eyes.

That night, you barely stepped inside before the door of penthouse slammed shut behind you. Namjoon grabbed your face and kissed you so desperately it knocked the breath out of you... like he’d been starving for three months straight.

Your coat slipped off your shoulders and hit the floor.

You were laughing, breathing his name, tears slipping down your cheeks because you’d missed him so much it hurt.

His hands slid into your hair, gripping gently.

“God,” he breathed against your lips, “you’re really here. You’re really—”

You cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tear he tried to hide. “Of course I’m here,” you whispered. “Where else would I go?”

You kissed him again, harder. He broke into a messy laugh that almost sounded like a sob.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, “how many nights I imagined this.” His mouth found your neck, your jaw, your lips again.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, voice shaking.

He didn’t answer.

He just lifted you... effortlessly, and carried you down the hallway, kissing you the whole way like he was making up for every day you were gone.

He laid you on the bed with a tenderness that made your chest ache. Then he crawled over you, suit jacket already on the floor, shirt half-open, tie loose around his neck.

He cupped your face with both hands.

“You showed up,” he said softly, breath uneven. “You came back to me.”

“I’ll always come back to you,” you whispered, fingers brushing his cheeks. “You’re my home, Joon.”

His eyes went glossy. “Baby…”

His voice broke. “I thought I’d be strong... you know? If I keep myself busy with all these elections stuff, I thought I’d be fine while you were gone. But every night, I… damn, I missed you so much it hurt.”

You pulled him closer, your hands sliding into his hair. “I missed you too.”

He kissed you... slow, deep, like he was memorizing you all over again. When he finally pulled back, he hovered above you, chest rising fast.

“You’re the only person,” he said, touching your lips with his thumb, “who keeps me sane… but also makes me completely fucking insane at the same time.”

You laughed softly, eyes wet.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m going to keep doing that for the rest of our lives.”

His smile... your favorite dimple smile... spread slowly, beautifully. “Promise?”

You hooked your finger around the front of his shirt and tugged him down until his weight settled on you just right, warm and solid and his. “Promise.”

He exhaled like you’d just given him air after months of living underwater.

Outside, the city celebrated its new mayor.

Inside the penthouse, the man himself only cared about the woman beneath him.

And somewhere between the city lights and the sound of his name on your lips, Seoul crowned its new king and queen.

Obsessed. In love. Unbreakable.

A/n: First of all… my brain was short-circuiting whole time while writing this story. Because let’s be honest... Namjoon as a political leader? We all know that man would look unfairly hot standing behind a podium, sleeves rolled up, addressing nation in his deep voice.

And the driving part? Yeah... well... I know, he doesn’t have a license in reality… but if he did? Lord have mercy on me.

Because the thought of him driving... One hand gripping the steering wheel… The other resting on your thigh… Eyes focused on the road with his clenched jaw... Ahhhhhhhh.... He’d look as dangerously sexy driving a car as he looks driving all of us abso-fucking-lutely insane.

But your eyes kept drifting to Namjoon.

He was seated at the edge of the room, scribbling in his notebook, his brows furrowed in that adorable way that made him look like he was solving world hunger instead of probably just writing a rap verse.

His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them up with a clumsy swipe, nearly knocking them off entirely.

You stifled a smile.

Two years... You’d been their manager for two years, and Namjoon had always been your favorite to work with. Not that you’d ever admit it out loud but he made it easy.

He was low maintenance, respectful, and had a quiet charm that disarmed you from day one.

He was also adorably clumsy, always tripping over cables or dropping his phone. You’d lost count of how many times you’d saved his AirPods from certain doom.

But it wasn’t just his clumsiness or his dimpled smile that got to you.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were the only person in the room who mattered.

You’d catch him staring during meetings, his eyes soft and intense, only to look away when you met his gaze. It was subtle, but it was there.

Always there.

And it was forbidden.

The contract clause was crystal clear: No inappropriate relationships with staff.

It was a line neither of you could cross, no matter how much his quiet gestures... bringing you tea when you were exhausted, offering his hoodie when you shivered, cracking dumb jokes to make you laugh, made your heart stutter.

You’d had a boyfriend for most of those two years, anyway.

A boyfriend who barely noticed you. Missed dates, ignored texts, forgot to pick you up from airports. You’d smile through the disappointment, but Namjoon always saw it.

One particularly rough night in Seoul, after your ex had bailed on yet another dinner, you were sitting in the empty practice room long after everyone else had left, staring at your phone screen with a forced smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

Namjoon lingered by the door, hesitating before stepping inside.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice gentle like always.

He held two cups of tea, the steam curling up between you.

You nodded quickly, slipping your phone into your pocket. “Yeah, just… long day. Thanks for the tea, Joon. You didn’t have to.”

He sat down on the floor across from you, crossing his long legs. “I wanted to. You’ve been running around fixing everyone else’s messes all week. Figured you could use a break.”

He paused, studying your face. “You sure you’re alright? You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world again.”

You laughed lightly, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing. My boyfriend just… got caught up with work. Again. No big deal.”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened further. “If it’s ‘nothing,’ why do you look like you’re forcing that smile? You know you can talk to me, right? I’m a pretty good listener. Even if I trip over my own feet half the time.”

You sighed, taking a sip of the warm tea.

It was exactly how you liked it—slightly sweet, with a hint of honey.

He always remembered.

“I don’t know… sometimes it feels like I’m the only one putting in effort. He forgot to pick me up from the airport last week, too. I waited for an hour.”

Namjoon’s jaw tightened just a fraction, but his voice stayed calm. “That’s not right. You deserve someone who shows up for you. Who sees how hard you work and makes sure you’re taken care of too.”

He hesitated, then added with a small, self-deprecating smile, “Not that I’m one to give relationship advice. I can barely manage my own schedule without your help.”

You chuckled despite yourself. “You’re not that bad. You’re the easiest one on the team, honestly. The others would be lost without you keeping them grounded.”

He grinned, dimples flashing. “See? We make a good team. You keep me from breaking expensive equipment, and I… bring you tea and bad jokes.”

His tone turned more serious. “But really. If you ever need to vent, or if things get too much, I’m here. No judgment.”

That became a pattern.

After tough days, he’d find little ways to check in.

Another time, weeks later, you were rushing through the hallway after a delayed flight, eyes puffy from holding back tears because your boyfriend had ignored your messages all day.

Namjoon appeared out of nowhere, jacket in hand.

“You look cold,” he said, draping it over your shoulders without waiting for permission. “And tired. Rough trip?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, pulling the jacket tighter. It smelled like him... clean, with a hint of his cologne. “Just… some personal stuff. Thanks, Joon. I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Keep it as long as you need,” he replied, falling into step beside you.

“You know, I read this article about how holding onto things that drain you can mess with your creativity. Not saying that applies to you, but… you deserve people who lift you up, not leave you waiting at airports.”

You glanced at him, heart twisting at the quiet care in his words. “You’re too nice for this industry, Kim Namjoon. Seriously, how are you so… observant?”

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just pay attention. Especially to the people who matter.”

His eyes met yours for a beat too long before he looked away. “Anyway, want to hear a dumb joke I just heard from Jin Hyung... to cheer you up? Why did the scarecrow win an award?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Why?”

“Because he was outstanding in his field.” He delivered it with such earnest clumsiness that you burst out laughing, the tension easing from your shoulders.

“God, that was terrible,” you said, nudging his arm. “But thank you. I needed that.”

“Anytime,” he murmured, his voice warm. “I mean it.”

He never pushed, never said anything outright about your boyfriend.

But he knew.

He always knew.

When you finally broke up with your ex, it was like a weight lifted. You didn’t talk about it publicly, but Namjoon noticed the change immediately.

A week after the breakup, you were in the studio helping him organize some lyric sheets. You were humming softly, moving with a lightness you hadn’t felt in months.

Namjoon looked up from his notebook, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You seem different lately. Happier. Did something good happen?”

You paused, biting your lip. “Yeah, actually. I… ended things with my boyfriend. It was overdue. I feel lighter, like I can breathe again.”

His eyes lit up, genuine relief and something deeper flashing across his face. “I’m glad. You deserve that lightness every day. No one should make you feel like you have to dim yourself to fit.”

You laughed softly. “Thanks, Joon. You’ve been… a really good friend through all of it. Even when I didn’t say anything.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that look... the one that made your stomach flutter.

“Friend, huh? I’ll take it. But seriously, you smile more now. It’s beautiful. You deserve someone who never lets that smile fade. Someone who’d worship the ground you walk on. Someone who notices when you’re carrying too much and helps carry the load.”

Your chest stuttered, your breath catching at the intensity in his voice. The air between you felt charged, heavy with unspoken feelings.

You laughed it off, though your cheeks warmed. “Wow, that’s a really cheesy line, Mr. RM. Practicing for a new song?”

He chuckled, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe. Or maybe I just mean it. You work so hard for all of us. Let someone work hard for you for once.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but the words lingered. “Careful, or I might start thinking you’re flirting with your manager.”

“Would that be so bad?” he teased lightly, but there was a vulnerability underneath.

Before you could respond, he stood up clumsily, nearly knocking over a stack of papers. “Shit—sorry. See? I still need you to manage my clumsy ass.”

You both burst into laughter, collapsing onto the couch in a fit of giggles as you helped him pick up the scattered sheets. The moment felt light, easy, but underneath it all, something had shifted.

That night, as you packed up your things, he leaned against the doorframe, watching you with that look again.

“You smile more now,” he repeated softly, almost reverent. “Don’t let anyone take that away.”

Your heart raced.

You muttered something about “cheesy lines,” but the words stayed with you, looping in your mind like a song you couldn’t shake.

Forbidden... Contract... Bad idea...

Right?

The international tour was a whirlwind after their recent comeback.

Tokyo, LA, Mexico, Vegas, Paris—each city blurred into the next, a kaleidoscope of jet lag, screaming fans, and endless schedules.

You were in your element, juggling logistics, calming frantic staff, and making sure the boys were where they needed to be. But the exhaustion was real. 6 a.m. wake-up calls, late-night soundchecks, and the constant pressure to keep everything running smoothly.

Namjoon was getting bolder.

You felt it in the way his hand brushed your waist when he guided you through a crowded backstage area, his touch lingering a fraction too long.

Or the way he leaned close during breaks, whispering dumb jokes in your ear to make you laugh. You’d swat him away, muttering, “Behave, Joon,” but your heart raced every time.

Don’t go there, you told yourself. Don’t.

But then there was the dancer.

One of the new backup dancers, Minho, had been… off.

You’d noticed it early on... his eyes lingered too long, his smile too sharp and creepy. He’d hover near you during breaks, making small talk that felt too personal.

You’d caught him taking selfies with you in the background, his phone angled just so. It was creepy, but you brushed it off. You were used to handling weirdos in this industry.

Until that night in Paris.

You were in the dressing room, checking in with stylists and organizing the boys’ outfits for the next show. The room was quiet after they left, the chaos of the day finally settling.

You were alone... or so you thought.

The door creaked open, and Minho slipped inside.

His smile was too wide, his eyes too dark.

“Hey,” he said, his voice syrupy. “You’re always so busy. Thought I’d keep you company.”

You forced a polite smile, your skin prickling. “I’m good, thanks. Just finishing up.”

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he stepped closer, his body blocking the path to the door. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re always with them. Don’t you want someone to notice you for you?”

Your stomach twisted. “I’m fine. You should go.”

He didn’t.

He moved closer, his hand reaching for your arm. You stepped back, but he grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to sting.

“Don’t be like that,” he murmured, leaning in. His breath was hot against your cheek, and panic surged in your chest.

“Let go,” you said, your voice sharp as you yanked your arm back. But he didn’t budge, his fingers tightening.

And then the door slammed open.

Namjoon stood there, his silhouette filling the doorway. His eyes, usually so warm and soft... were dark, blazing with a rage you’d never seen before.

“Take your hands off her. Now.”

His voice was low, deadly, each word dripping with barely restrained fury. Minho froze, his grip loosening as he stumbled back under the weight of Namjoon’s glare.

“I... I was just—” Minho stammered, but Namjoon cut him off.

“Get out.”

Minho didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled for the door, nearly tripping in his haste. Security appeared moments later, dragging him away.

Namjoon turned to you, his jaw tight, his hands shaking as he grabbed your arm... not roughly, but urgently, and pulled you out of the room.

He slammed the door behind you, his chest heaving as he paced the hallway, hands raking through his hair.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice raw. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice trembled. You held up your wrist, where faint red marks lingered. “Just… shaken.”

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed on the marks, and his expression darkened further. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing over your wrist with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the storm in his eyes.

“I should’ve protected you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I should’ve said something sooner. I saw how he looked at you, and I... fuck... fuck the rules.”

Your heart stopped. “Namjoon, don’t—”

But he wasn’t listening.

He was too close now, his breath warm against your face, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your knees weak.

“I’m done pretending,” he said. “I’m done watching you hurt and not doing anything about it. I’m done acting like I don’t—”

He stopped himself, his hands clenching into fists as he stepped back, trying to rein himself in. But you saw it... the raw, aching need in his eyes.

The same need you’d been burying for months.

“Let’s get you to Hotel,” he said finally, his voice softer but still edged with something dangerous. “You are coming with me. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Instead of taking you to your room three doors down, Namjoon guided you gently toward his suite at the end of the hall. “Come to mine,” he said quietly. “I have a first aid kit. We should treat those marks before they bruise worse.”

You nodded, still shaken, letting him lead the way.

Namjoon’s hotel suite was a mess of books, lyric sheets, and half-empty coffee cups—a reflection of his chaotic, beautiful mind.

You sat on the edge of his bed, your hands still trembling from the encounter with Minho. Namjoon didn’t touch you, didn’t sit too close at first. He just stayed with you, his presence steady and warm.

He paced for a while, muttering to himself about “fucking creeps” and “stupid contracts.” You watched him, your heart aching at how unhinged he was, how much he cared.

“I’m okay, Joon,” you said finally, your voice soft. “Really.”

He stopped pacing, his eyes snapping to yours. “You’re not okay. I saw your face. I saw how he—”

He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his face. “I should’ve been there.”

“You were,” you said. “You stopped it.”

He shook his head, his jaw tight. “Not soon enough.”

Namjoon disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and returned with a small first aid kit. He sat beside you on the bed, close enough that his knee brushed yours, and gently took your wrist in his large, warm hand.

With careful movements, he applied a soothing ointment to the faint red marks, his thumb stroking lightly over your skin as if to erase the memory of the grip.

“This should help,” he murmured, voice low and focused. “Tell me if it stings.”

The room fell silent, the air thick with unspoken things.

You wanted to reach for him, to tell him it was okay, but the weight of the contract, the company, the rules held you back.

After a while, you stood, murmuring that you should head back to your own room just a few doors down the hall. He walked you there but didn’t push to stay, respecting the fragile space between you.

The next day, you were back to work, but the incident lingered heavily. The boys were busy with final sound checks on stage, the distant thrum of music and Jin & Jungkook’s laughter echoing through the arena.

You slipped away backstage to check in something, almost against your will to the same dressing room where everything had happened yesterday.

As soon as you stepped inside, the memories flooded back—the creep of Minho’s voice, his tight grip on your wrist, the fear that had gripped your chest.

Your eyes grew teary, your breath shaky as you leaned against the wall, realising what could have possibly happened if Namjoon didn't arrive on time.

You didn’t hear the soft knock on door behind you.

“Hey,” Namjoon called, his voice low and gentle, muffled slightly as he stepped in. “It’s me. I saw you come this way during the break. The others are still on stage for another twenty minutes or so. Can I come in… properly?”

You wiped at your eyes quickly, trying to steady your breathing as you turned toward him.

“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice cracked, betraying the tears you couldn’t quite hide. “Really, Joon. You should be with the members.”

He saw right through you.

His eyes softened with deep concern, but there was something else there—something fierce and protective, layered with a tender longing that made your heart ache.

He stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, and leaned against the wall near the sink, giving you space but never taking his eyes off you.

The air between you felt charged, heavy with everything unsaid.

“I’ve spent two years watching you carry everyone else’s burdens,” he said, his voice low and steady, each word deliberate and full of quiet emotion.

“I’ve seen you smile through things that would break anyone else. I’ve watched you put on that brave face after every missed call from your ex, after every long flight, after every crisis that wasn’t even yours to fix. And I’ve stayed quiet, because I thought that’s what you needed. And because of that damn contract. Because I didn’t want to make things harder for you, or risk messing up what we already have.”

He took a slow step closer, his large hands twitching at his sides like he was physically fighting the urge to reach out and pull you into his arms.

“But I can’t do it anymore. I can’t pretend I don’t see you, that I don’t feel you, every single day. I’ve been in love with you for so long it hurts, and I—”

His voice broke, raw and vulnerable, and he looked down for a moment, jaw tight as he gathered himself.

“God, saying it out loud feels terrifying. But I need you to tell me what you want. If you want me to keep my distance, to stay just your clumsy RM who brings you tea, I will. I’ll try my best, even if it kills me. But if you feel even a fraction of what I feel… if there’s any part of you that’s been wondering the same thing… say it. Please. I need to hear it from you.”

Your breath caught sharply in your throat, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst out of your chest. The sincerity in his eyes, the way his voice trembled just slightly on the words “in love with you,” cracked open every wall you’d built.

You’d spent so long burying your feelings, hiding behind professionalism and fear, convincing yourself this was impossible. But here he was, standing in the very room, offering his heart so openly.

“Namjoon…” you whispered, your voice trembling as fresh tears welled up, not from fear this time but from overwhelming emotion.

“I’ve wanted you for so long. Longer than I even admitted to myself. Every time you brought me tea, every quiet ‘you okay?’ after a bad day, every time I caught you looking at me like I was something precious… it killed me to pretend I didn’t feel it too. But I’m scared. The contract, the company, what this could mean for you and the boys—”

“I know,” he said softly, stepping even closer now, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with stage nerves.

His hand lifted slowly, hovering near your cheek before gently brushing a tear away with his thumb. “I’m scared too. Terrified, actually. But I’d rather face every consequence, than keep pretending I don’t love you. You’re worth risking everything for. Tell me I’m not alone in this. Tell me you feel it too.”

The dam broke completely.

The tension that had been building for months snapped like a live wire. You closed the distance in one desperate step, your hands reaching up to cup his face, fingers threading into his hair as your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative and trembling.

But then it deepened with fierce intensity—his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him as if he was afraid you might disappear.

His lips moved against yours with hungry passion, a slow burn turning into wildfire, tongues brushing in a dance that sent sparks down your spine. You could feel his heart racing against your chest, matching your own frantic rhythm.

Every brush of his fingers along your back, every soft groan he let out into your mouth, every second of built-up longing poured out in waves that left you dizzy and breathless.

He tasted like coffee and desperation, like every stolen glance and unspoken word finally set free. Your bodies pressed closer, his large frame enveloping you protectively as the kiss grew more urgent, more consuming.

Butterflies erupted wildly in your stomach, a fluttering storm of desire, relief, and pure love that made your knees weak.

Time seemed to stop in that dressing room—the same place that had brought terror now filled with something beautiful and electric.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together, lips swollen and eyes locked in a gaze full of wonder and heat.

Your hands stayed on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall.

“We’re going to get in so much trouble,” you murmured, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping you as you traced his jaw with your thumb. “But God, Joon… that felt right. So right.”

He smiled, those beloved dimples flashing, but his eyes remained serious and dark with emotion. “Then we’ll face it together. No more hiding. I love you. I’ve loved you for so long I don’t remember what it felt like before.”

“I love you too,” you whispered back, the words tasting like freedom on your tongue. “More than I knew how to say.”

You lingered for another moment, stealing one more soft kiss, then another, the tension between you crackling like electricity. But reality nudged in.

You pulled back slightly, hands still on his chest.

“You should probably head back,” you said softly, voice laced with reluctance.

“Sound check is wrapping up, and the concert is in less than an hour. The boys will be looking for you. We… we’ll talk more after. But for now... go. Be amazing as always out there.”

Namjoon nodded, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead, his arms squeezing you tight. “I’ll be thinking of you every second I’m on that stage. We’ll figure this out. Promise me you’ll be okay until then?”

“I will,” you assured him, smiling through the lingering butterflies. “Now go, before someone comes looking.”

He stepped back reluctantly, eyes full of promises and heat, then slipped out the door, leaving you alone in the room—heart racing, lips tingling, and the sweet tension of what was to come hanging thick in the air for the entire concert ahead.

The concert had ended hours ago, but the adrenaline still hummed wildly in your veins, mixing with something far more dangerous.

The entire ride back to the hotel had been pure torture.

You and Namjoon sat close in the van, the air thick with unspoken promises and weeks of pent-up tension. Every stolen glance, every accidental brush of his fingers against your thigh, every shared look that lingered too long had only worsened the ache that started the moment your lips met backstage.

The kiss you shared hours ago still burned on your skin, a promise of what was coming.

As you stepped off the elevator onto your floor, the hallway was quiet except for the sound of your racing heart.

You stopped in front of your door, just three rooms down from his, and turned to face him. Your body ached for him, heat pooling low in your belly, but you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little longer.

You gave him a soft, playful smile, biting your lip as you looked up at him through your lashes. “I should probably head to my room,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s late… We wouldn’t want to risk anything tonight, right?”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened instantly, the hunger in them unmistakable.

He stepped closer, towering over you, his presence overwhelming in the dimly lit hallway. He knew you wanted him just as badly... he could see it in the way your breath hitched, the way your thighs pressed together, the way you hadn’t stopped looking at him since the concert ended.

“Like hell you are,” he growled low, his voice rough and filled with raw need. His large hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, not rough but possessive, pulling you toward his suite at the end of the hall.

“You think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing? Teasing me like this after that kiss backstage? After hours of this fucking tension building between us?”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh as he tugged you along, your pulse skyrocketing. “Maybe I’m just being responsible, Joon. Wouldn’t want to break any more rules tonight…”

He stopped in front of his door, swiping his keycard with his free hand while keeping his grip on you. He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice dark and dripping with desire.

“Responsible? Baby, we both know you want this as much as I do. I saw how you looked at me during the encore. I felt how you trembled when I kissed your forehead. That tension from the dressing room? It’s been killing you too. Stop pretending.”

The door clicked open.

Before you could tease him again, he pulled you inside, shutting the door behind you with a decisive thud.

“Joon—” you started, but he cut you off, pressing you against the closed door, his body flush against yours.

“No more teasing,” he murmured, cupping your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Tell me you don’t want me right now and I’ll let you go to your room. But we both know that’s a lie.”

You shivered, staring into his intense eyes, the air between you thick and reeking of barely contained lust. “I do want you,” you whispered, finally giving in. “So much it hurts.”

A low, satisfied groan escaped him. “Good girl.”

Namjoon was on you like a man starved.

His hands cupped your face as he crashed his lips against yours in a desperate, claiming kiss. The kiss was hot, messy, and full of two years of longing—tongues sliding, teeth nipping, breaths mingling.

He pressed you back against the door, his tall, strong body pinning you there, and you could feel every hard inch of him, especially the growing bulge straining against his jeans.

“Fuck, you have no idea,” he murmured against your mouth, voice deep and wrecked as he kissed along your jaw, teeth grazing your skin. “No idea how long I’ve wanted this. How many nights I lay awake thinking about you, touching myself while imagining it was you.”

“Joon…” you gasped, your hands fisting in his shirt as your head fell back against the door. “We’re really doing this. We’re gonna get in so much trouble if anyone finds out.”

“Let them try to stop us,” he growled, his hands sliding down your sides, fingers digging possessively into your hips as he ground against you. “I don’t give a fuck about the contract anymore. You’re worth it. You’re mine now.”

His fingers brushed over the faint marks still lingering on your wrist from Minho. His expression turned darker, almost feral. He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the tender skin with aching reverence.

“Let me erase every fucking mark he left on you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “No one else gets to touch what’s mine. Say it, baby.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered breathlessly.

He groaned at your words and suddenly lifted you, carrying you to the nearby couch. He set you down gently but urgently, then dropped to his knees in front of you like a man worshipping at an altar.

His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, exposing your skin inch by inch.

“Look at you,” he breathed, eyes dark and intense as he stared up at you.

The sight of Kim Namjoon on his knees, broad shoulders between your legs, made your panties soaked. “So fucking perfect. Tell me you want this. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Joon,” you moaned, voice shaking with need. “Please… I need you.”

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He hooked his fingers into your panties and pulled them down slowly, letting them pool at your ankles.

Namjoon leaned in slowly, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His lips were wet and sloppy, sucking gently, then harder, leaving faint marks of his own as his tongue dragged over your skin.

Your thighs trembled uncontrollably under the attention, the wet sounds of his kisses filling the room.

“Fuck, these thighs,” he murmured reverently between kisses, his voice thick with lust. “So soft… so fucking perfect. I’ve dreamed about burying my face between them for so long. You’re shaking already, baby. You like when I kiss you here?”

“Yes... Joon, please,” you whimpered, your hands gripping the couch cushions as your legs quivered.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Good girl. So responsive for me.” He continued his worship, sucking and licking higher, closer to where you needed him most, until you were a trembling, dripping mess.

Only then did he move in fully... his mouth was on you, hot, hungry, and relentless. He devoured you like a goddess, like he’d been starving for years and you were his salvation.

His tongue flicked over your clit with devastating precision before flattening to lick broad, messy stripes through your folds, tasting every inch of you.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, humming in pleasure as he worked you with expert skill.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned against your core, the deep vibration making you cry out.

“Sweeter than I imagined. So fucking wet for me already. This pretty pussy is dripping down my chin, baby. You’re soaking me and I love it. I could stay here for hours, eating this sweet cunt until you can’t take anymore.”

Your hands flew to his hair, gripping the soft strands tightly as your hips bucked against his face. “Joon—oh god, that feels so good… your mouth—fuck!”

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his lips shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and intense. “You’re doing so well for me. Such a good girl, letting me taste you like this. This pussy belongs to me now. Say it.”

“It’s yours,” you moaned, thighs trembling around his head. “All yours, Joon.”

He dove back in with renewed hunger, sliding one thick finger inside you, curling it perfectly against that spot that made your back arch off the couch.

Then he added a second finger, stretching you open while his tongue worked your clit mercilessly—sucking, licking, and flicking in a rhythm that had you seeing stars.

“That’s it, baby. Ride my face,” he growled between licks, his free hand gripping your thigh possessively. “You’re so tight around my fingers. So fucking perfect. I can feel you clenching already. Come for me, princess. Let me taste how good I make you feel.”

“Joon... oh god, I’m so close already,” you whimpered, voice breaking as the pleasure built unbearably. “You’re gonna make me... fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

“Look at me,” he commanded, pulling back just enough for his dark eyes to lock onto yours, fingers still pumping steadily. “I want you to watch who’s making you fall apart. Who this pretty pussy belongs to. Come on my tongue like the good girl you are.”

You obeyed, eyes locked with his as he sucked harder on your clit, fingers thrusting faster and deeper. The coil in your stomach snapped violently.

You came with a loud, broken cry, thighs shaking around his head, waves of intense pleasure crashing over you as you gushed on his tongue.

But Namjoon didn’t stop.

He kept licking and fingering you through every aftershock, devouring every drop like he couldn’t get enough, murmuring praises against your oversensitive flesh.

“That’s my good girl… so fucking beautiful when you cum for me. Give me another one, baby. I’m not done worshipping you yet.”

You whimpered his name like a prayer, oversensitive and trembling, but he continued his relentless devotion until you were a moaning, shaking mess beneath him.

He finally stood, lips glistening with your arousal, and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss was filthy and loving all at once, his tongue sliding against yours as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

“OH... God... you’re mine,” he repeated against your mouth, voice rough and possessive, sending shivers down your spine. “Say it again while I fuck you. I need to hear it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped breathlessly between kisses, your hands clutching his shoulders. “And I’ll repeat it everytime you ask me, Joon. Only yours.”

He groaned deeply at your words, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Fuck, baby… you have no idea what you do to me.”

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist as he carried you to the bed.

The way he held you... so strong yet so careful, made your heart swell with love even as raw lust burned between you. He laid you down gently on the mattress, but his eyes were dark with hunger.

You reached for him immediately, tossing off his shirt, hands tracing every line of his toned chest and faint scars, worshipping the body you’d wanted for so long. He shoved down his jeans and boxers in one motion. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, and leaking at the tip.

“Need you so fucking bad,” he rasped, settling between your spread thighs. He spread you open with his large hands, rubbing the head of his cock against your slick, sensitive entrance, teasing you mercilessly.

“You’re so wet for me already. Been thinking about this since that kiss backstage, haven’t you? All through the concert I was hard just remembering how you tasted on my tongue.”

“Yes,” you moaned, hips rolling up desperately, trying to pull him inside. “Please, Joon. I want you inside me. I’ve wanted this for so long… I can’t wait anymore.”

He leaned down, forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavily.

The tension in the air was electric—thick with love, lust, and years of suppressed desire. “I love you,” he whispered fiercely, voice trembling with emotion. “I love you so much it hurts. But right now I need to fuck you like I’ve been dying to.”

He reached over to the jeans pockets, fumbling for a moment before pulling out a condom. A mischievous, slightly embarrassed smirk tugged at his lips as he tore the packet open with his teeth.

You blinked, chest heaving. “Wait… you already have those here?”

Namjoon chuckled lowly, rolling the condom down his thick length with steady hands, eyes never leaving yours. “I may have… asked the members for one after the concert. Told them I needed it for ‘reasons.’ Jin-hyung gave me three with the biggest shit-eating grin. They definitely know something’s up.”

You let out a breathless laugh, cheeks burning even as arousal pulsed through you. “Great. Now everyone’s going to know. By tomorrow the whole group chat is going to be unbearable.”

“Let them talk,” he growled, positioning himself at your entrance again, rubbing the tip against your clit teasingly. “I don’t care. As long as you’re mine.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you deliciously. You gasped sharply, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure bordered on overwhelming.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, voice strained with the effort of holding back. “So perfect around me. You okay, baby? Tell me if it’s too much.”

“I’m good—fuck, Joon, you feel incredible,” you begged, rolling your hips up to take more of him. “Move, please. I need all of you. Love me. Fuck me. Make me forget everything except you.”

He kissed you hard, full of love and raw lust, then started moving—deep, powerful thrusts that stole your breath. The room filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, your shared moans, and whispered words of love and filth.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your lips between thrusts. “I’m never letting you go.”

He didn’t hold back.

His pace was rough and desperate, hips snapping forward as he fucked you deep and hard, each powerful thrust pushing you further into the mattress.

The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your breathy moans and his low groans, filling the room with raw, filthy heat. The air was thick and heavy with the scent of sex and sweat.

“Look at me,” he demanded again, voice rough and commanding.

One of his large hands slid up to rest possessively around your throat... not squeezing, just holding you there, claiming you.

His eyes burned into yours as he drove into you relentlessly. “I want to see your face when you come on my cock. Say you’re mine, baby. Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, eyes locked on his, your voice breaking with every deep thrust. “Only yours, Joon. Fuck—harder! Please, I need more—”

“That’s my girl,” he growled, his hips slamming into you even harder, deeper, the wet sound of your bodies meeting echoing louder.

“God, I love you so fucking much. You have no idea how long I’ve been dying for this. How many nights I lay awake aching for you, knowing you were with your ex… and he didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a messy, desperate kiss while continuing to thrust into you with punishing rhythm.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes dark with lust and raw emotion.

“Every time that bastard ignored your texts, every time he forgot you at the airport, every time I saw that sad smile on your face… it fucking killed me,” he confessed between heavy thrusts, voice strained but full of passion.

“I wanted to pull you into my arms and tell you that you deserved someone who would worship the ground you walk on. Someone who would kiss the fucking floor you step on. I would never treat you like that. Never. You’re my everything.”

“Joon…” you moaned loudly, your nails raking down his back as pleasure coiled tighter inside you. The way he was looking at you... so possessive, so obsessed, yet so full of love, made your heart ache with overwhelming emotion.

“I’m obsessed with you,” he admitted hoarsely, hips snapping forward again, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over. “I’ve been obsessed for two fucking years. Watching you, wanting you, loving you from a distance because I respected you too much to ever do anything until you weren’t ready.”

His thrusts grew even more intense, deep and claiming, his hand still possessively around your throat as he stared into your eyes.

“No one else gets to see you like this,” he growled, voice dripping with lust and devotion. “No one else gets to hear you like this. You’re mine to worship. Mine to ruin. Mine to love until the end of time. Tell me again, baby. Tell me who you belong to while I fuck you senseless.”

“You!” you cried out, tears of overwhelming pleasure and love pricking your eyes. “Only you, Joon. I love you so much—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, pounding into you harder, chasing both your pleasure and his. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart. I’ve waited so long for this. So fucking long.”

The tension, the confessions, the raw love mixed with filthy lust pushed you over the edge. You came hard, clenching around his cock, crying out his name as stars exploded behind your eyes, your entire body shaking.

Namjoon followed right after, burying himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom. He stayed there for a moment, breathing heavily against your neck, before slowly pulling out.

He collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his strong arms. His lips brushed your temple, then your forehead, soft and reverent after the raw passion.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured tenderly, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing patterns on your back. “I’m never letting you go. I love you. More than you’ll ever know.”

You curled into his chest, heart still racing, body buzzing with aftershocks. “I love you too. So much. I never knew how much you were holding back… how deeply you felt all this time.”

For the first time in years, wrapped in his arms, you felt truly safe, wanted, completely loved and utterly claimed.

The next morning, reality crashed down.

You woke up in Namjoon’s arms, his warmth enveloping you, but the weight of what you’d done settled in your chest like a stone.

The contract. The company. The consequences.

“We’re fucked,” you muttered, burying your face in his chest.

Namjoon stirred, his arms tightening around you instinctively.

He let out a low, sleepy chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Probably. But damn… it was worth it, wasn’t it?” His hand rubbed slow circles on your back, gentle and reassuring.

You swatted his arm, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he said, kissing your forehead.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes still hazy with sleep but filled with unwavering affection. “Good morning, by the way. How are you feeling? Any regrets?”

You shook your head, tracing idle patterns on his chest with your fingertip.

“No regrets,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he murmured against your lips, deepening the kiss.

You both knew what had to happen.

You insisted on telling the company yourself, before anyone could twist the story. You marched into your superior’s office, your heart pounding, Namjoon’s hand brushing yours one last time before you went in.

“Let them fire me,” you told him, your voice fierce. “I’m not giving you up.”

He smiled, his eyes soft. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

They didn’t fire you—because, you were too good at your job, and Namjoon was RM. But you were reassigned, pulled off BTS’s team and moved to a different department.

It stung, but Namjoon was relentless.

He confessed to you, to the company, to anyone who would listen.

Months later, you were no longer his manager, but you were his.

The company eventually worked out a quiet deal—thanks to Jin’s smooth persuasions and Yoongi’s terrifyingly calm emails.

You stayed on as a general coordinator, traveling with the group when needed. You and Namjoon kept things low-key in public, but the boys knew.

And they loved it.

Backstage before the concert, the energy was electric.

You stood close to Namjoon, fussing over his in-ear mic.

“Hold still, Joon,” you murmured softly, your fingers carefully tucking the earpiece and smoothing the wire along his neck. “Why do I always end up doing this? You’d probably walk on stage with it dangling if I didn’t check.”

Namjoon looked down at you with a fond, dimpled smile, his voice low and teasing just for you. “Because you worry about me too much. But I’m a grown man, you know. I can handle my own mic… most of the time.”

You rolled your eyes playfully as your fingers brushed his collar, straightening it with gentle tugs.

“A grown man who dropped his phone in a water this morning? Yeah, sure. I fuss because someone has to keep the genius RM from technical disasters right before he owns the stage.”

He chuckled warmly, his hands lightly resting on your waist as you moved to brush a tiny piece of lint off his crisp black shirt. The simple, domestic gesture felt so natural now.

“You don’t have to, but I love that you do,” he admitted quietly, eyes soft. “Makes me feel like the luckiest guy here. Even if the members are about to roast me for it.”

The others noticed immediately.

Jin’s voice boomed with dramatic flair as he leaned against a nearby equipment case. “Yah! Look at this! Where’s the wedding invite, huh? I need to clear my schedule for the big day and be the emcee.”

Jungkook, bouncing on his heels with a mischievous grin, jumped in right away. “Hyung, do I get to be the flower boy? Or maybe the ring bearer? I promise I won’t drop them… probably.”

Jimin clapped his hands together, eyes sparkling with delight. “Oh my god, you two are so cute it hurts. Look at her fixing his collar like a proper wife already! Namjoon-hyung, you’re blushing so hard right now.”

Taehyung pretended to wipe away fake tears. “I can’t believe this. My favorite hyung is all domesticated now. Next thing you know, she’ll be packing his snacks and reminding him not to lose his passport again.”

Hobi laughed brightly, pulling out his phone to snap a quick photo. “This is pure gold! Someone pass the tissues... I’m getting emotional!”

Yoongi, ever the calm one, smirked from his seat while adjusting his own mic. “You all talk too much. Let them be. Though… yeah, keep the heart eyes off in public.”

Namjoon groaned loudly, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red as he rubbed the back of his neck.

He gently grabbed your wrist and pulled you aside, away from the group’s prying eyes and teasing laughter, his large hands settling warmly on your hips.

“They’re never gonna let me live this down,” he muttered, voice low and slightly embarrassed, though his eyes were soft and full of affection as he looked at you.

You smirked up at him, your hands resting on his chest as you tilted your head playfully. “You love it. Deep down, you love all this chaos. Admit it—it makes you smile bigger when they tease you about me.”

He chuckled, dimples deepening as he leaned in closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Okay, maybe a little. But mostly I just love you. Even when they’re being absolute gremlins about it.”

From behind you, Jin called out again, “Yah, lovebirds! Save the whispering for after the encore! Some of us are trying to focus here!”

Jungkook added with a laugh, “Yeah, hyung! If you drop the mic tonight because you’re too busy staring at her, I’m telling everyone it’s because of love sickness!”

You both laughed, and Namjoon pressed a quick, soft kiss to your temple before reluctantly letting go.

“We’ll continue this later,” he whispered promisingly.

Later that night, after the concert’s high energy had settled, the group gathered for a late dinner in a private room. Soju bottles were passed around as the boys recounted the show’s highlights, but the teasing quickly turned back to you and Namjoon.

Taehyung raised his glass dramatically. “To the real MVP tonight — our ex-manager who somehow keeps this clumsy giant in line!”

Jimin leaned forward with a grin. “Tell us again about the phone incident this morning. Namjoon-hyung, how are you a genius and a disaster at the same time?”

Namjoon groaned but smiled, his arm draped casually around your shoulders. “It was one time. And she’s a saint for putting up with me.”

You nudged him playfully. “One time? Babe, it’s at least the third this month your phone have been rescued by me. But I wouldn’t trade your clumsy ass for anything.”

Hobi nearly spit out his soju laughing. “See! That’s true love right there. She calls him ‘babe’ now!”

Jin wiped his eyes, still chuckling.

Namjoon leaned close to you amid the laughter, his lips brushing your ear, voice dropping to that low, teasing register that always sent shivers down your spine.

“Ignore them. Let’s get back to the room soon. I owe you some real worship tonight... slow, thorough, the kind that makes you forget all their teasing.”

Your face flushed hot, but you couldn’t hide the smile spreading across your lips or the excited flutter in your chest.

As the boys erupted into mock-scandalized shouts... “Yah, we heard that!” from Jin, and “Get a room!” from Jungkook, you leaned into Namjoon’s side, feeling perfectly content.

You knew one thing for sure... you were his, and he was yours.

Contract or no contract, nothing was going to change that.

You stood near the entrance, your palms damp against the glossy cover of Namjoon’s latest novel, your heart fluttering the way it always did when he was close.

He was only a few feet away adjusting his glasses, flashing polite smiles at the staff, his voice warm and deep in casual conversation—and somehow, it felt like the room revolved around him.

“You know,” you blurted, trying to mask your nerves with a grin, “you look like you’re about to give a TED Talk in that blazer. All… serious and genius vibes.”

Namjoon chuckled, that deep, warm sound that always made your knees weak.

“Says the one who showed up looking like they’re ready to steal my spotlight.” He reached over, ruffling your hair like you were still the braces-wearing kid from next door.

“When did you get so grown-up, huh?”

“Stop that!” you swatted his hand away, laughing despite the flush creeping up your neck. “I’m not a baby anymore, Joon.”

“Oh, you’ll always be my favorite baby neighbor,” he teased, his dimples flashing as he leaned closer. “Gotta keep you humble. Can’t have you outshining me at my own event.”

You rolled your eyes, though inside your chest something squeezed tight. He was teasing, the same way he always did, but his words carried that familiar tone, cherished, yes.

But never as a woman.

Always the kid from next door.

“Just sign my book already, Mr. Bestseller,” you muttered, trying to hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks.

“Patience, kid,” he said, winking as he turned to head toward the signing table. “Stick around, yeah? I’ll need someone to keep me sane after all this.”

You nodded, waving him off, but the warmth of his touch lingered on your scalp, and you hated how it made you feel both cherished and invisible.

Namjoon had always been like this—five years older, the son of your parents’ best friends, the boy who used to help you with your math homework and tease you about your clumsy attempts at skateboarding.

Now, at twenty-seven, he was a bestselling author, all brooding intellect and quiet charm, and you had been crushing on him since you were old enough to know what a crush was.

But he kept you at arm’s length, his “sweet little neighbor.”

Too young, too innocent, too untouchable.

You took a seat near the back as the signing began, watching as a line of fans—mostly women—formed in front of his table.

Namjoon was in his element, his smile easy and disarming, those illegal dimples carving into his cheeks. A woman in a red dress leaned forward, her voice syrupy as she handed him her book.

“Your writing is just… so profound,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t put it down. How do you come up with such deep ideas?”

Namjoon’s eyes crinkled as he signed her book.

“Thank you, that means a lot. I just try to write what feels true, you know? Life’s messy, so I lean into that.”

Another woman, slid her book across the table, her fingers lingering on the cover. “Your main character… he’s so intense. Is he based on you?”

She batted her lashes, and you had to suppress an eye-roll.

Namjoon laughed, a low rumble.

“Maybe a little. But he’s got way more game than me.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she purred, leaning closer. “You seem like you’ve got plenty of charm.”

He smiled politely, handing her book back. “Appreciate the compliment. Hope you enjoy the next one.”

The third woman was bolder, slipping a piece of paper with her number scrawled on it under her book. “You should call me sometime,” she said, her voice teasing. “I’d love to pick your brain about… inspiration.”

Namjoon’s cheeks flushed slightly, but he kept his cool, tucking the paper aside without comment. “Thanks for coming out today. Means a lot to have readers like you.”

You clutched your book tighter, your nails digging into the cover as a pang of something sharp and ugly twisted in your chest.

Jealousy.

It wasn’t just that these women were flirting with him—it was how effortlessly he handled it, all dimples and deep voice, charming them without even trying.

You weren’t invisible, but you might as well have been.

That night, you prepared a plan.

It was ridiculous, rom-com levels of absurdity, but you were desperate. If Namjoon wouldn’t notice you as a woman, you’d make him notice you—by making him jealous.

Over coffee the next day, you roped in Jungkook.

Your classmate, who was always down for a scheme if it meant free food or drinks. He was cute, with his bunny smile and boundless energy.

He was just your friend.

Still, he was perfect for this.

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Jungkook said, leaning back in his chair, a half-eaten muffin in his hand.

“You want me to be your fake boyfriend to mess with your hot neighbor’s head? That writer guy? That’s some next-level drama shit.”

You groaned, shoving a piece of your sandwich at him. “Don’t make it sound so unhinged. I just… I need to know if he cares, okay? He’s always so… proper with me. Like I’m still a kid.”

Jungkook snorted, wiping crumbs off his shirt.

“You’re not a kid. You’re, like, a full-on adult who look gorgeous and stubborn as hell. Dude’s blind if he doesn’t see that.”

“Exactly!” you said, slapping the table. “So we go to his favorite bar, act all couple-y, and see if he gets jealous. You in?”

“Hell yeah,” Jungkook said, grinning. “But I’m warning you, I’m a method actor. I’m gonna be the cheesiest boyfriend you’ve ever seen. Pet names, hand-holding, the works.”

You laughed, already regretting this. “Just don’t call me ‘wifey’ or something. I’ll die.”

“No promises,” he said, winking. “What if I call you a ‘pookie bear’ for good measure?”

“Jungkook, I will end you.”

He cackled, stealing the rest of your sandwich. “This is gonna be epic. When do we start?”

The bar was a cozy, dimly lit with warm amber lights.

Namjoon came here every Friday night, usually with a book or his laptop, sipping whiskey and looking like he walked out of a romance novel. You had been here with him a few times—casual hangouts, of course, where he’d tease you about your “baby taste” in drinks and you’d try not to stare at the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

That night, you were dressed to kill.

A little black dress that hugged your curves, hair loose and wavy, makeup subtle but sultry.

Jungkook was in a black leather jacket and jeans, looking effortlessly cool, but you could tell he was nervous by the way he kept fidgeting with his piercings.

Namjoon was already there, in his usual corner, a book open in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up, veins and forearms catching the glow, his mouth set in that distracted frown he wore when reading.

He looked… devastating. Drop dead Gorgeous.

You swallowed hard. God, what am I even doing?

“Okay,” you whispered, leaning close.

“Ground rules. Hold my hand, laugh at my jokes, maybe drop a ‘babe’ once or twice. But keep it natural. We’re supposed to look… effortless.”

Jungkook smirked, nodding. “Got it, babe.”

You cringed so hard you wanted to crawl under the table. “Oh my god, no. Not like that. You sound like you’re trying to sell me a used car.”

He laughed, loud and unfiltered, drawing a few glances—including Namjoon’s. His head lifted from his book, and for a split second, your eyes met.

His brows raised slightly, and you swore you saw a flicker of something—surprise? Amusement?—before he went back to his book.

“Showtime,” Jungkook muttered, slinging his arm over your shoulders.

The next twenty minutes were hell.

“Sweetie, you want another drink?” Jungkook said, voice booming like he was auditioning for a soap opera.

You smiled stiffly, hissing under your breath, “Not so loud. You’re supposed to sound charming, not like a megaphone.”

“Right, right,” he whispered dramatically. “How’s this, darling?”

You groaned, covering your face. “You’re impossible.”

He tried to hold your hand, but his palm was sweaty, and in his attempt to be “romantic,” he knocked over your mojito, sending a cascade of liquid across the table.

“Shit—sorry, bro!” he blurted, fumbling for napkins.

You froze. “Bro? BRO? Jungkook, we’re supposed to be dating.”

“Oh—uh—right.” He threw an arm around you again, voice stiff. “Babe, let’s get you cleaned up. Can’t have my girl all sticky.”

You turned, horrified. “Did you just call me sticky?”

“I panicked!” he whispered, face reddening.

By now, Namjoon’s book was closed.

He wasn’t even pretending anymore.

His elbow rested on the table, chin in his hand, eyes locked on you both with something like… quiet amusement. His lips twitched like he was seconds from laughing outright, and those damn dimples carved deeper as he took another sip of whiskey.

Your stomach flipped.

He wasn’t jealous. He was entertained.

Desperate, Jungkook leaned close, like he was about to whisper sweet nothings, only to murmur, “Yo, you think they have chicken wings here?”

You smacked your forehead into your palm.

“Jungkook, you’re killing me.”

“I got this, I got this,” he said, grabbing your hand dramatically and lifting it toward his lips—only to misjudge and bump his nose against your knuckles.

“Ow—fuck!”

Namjoon finally stood, strolling over with that easy, confident stride that made your stomach flip. He was in a black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his forearms flexed.

“Having fun?” he asked, voice low and amused, as he slid into the booth across from you.

You froze. Jungkook tried to play it cool.

“Oh, hey, man! Just, uh, chilling with my girl here.” He patted your shoulder like you were his gym buddy.

Namjoon’s eyes flickered to you, then back to Jungkook, and he chuckled—a deep, rumbling sound that made your skin prickle. “Your girl, huh?”

You wanted to sink into the floor.

Jungkook was flustered as hell, and you were pretty sure your face was the color of a tomato.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, scrambling. “It’s… new.”

Namjoon leaned back in the booth across from you, spreading out like he owned the space.

His grin was pure trouble. “Clearly. You two are… adorable.”

Jungkook, sensing defeat, made an excuse about needing the washroom and bolted, leaving you alone with Namjoon. You glared at him, clutching your empty glass.

“You’re enjoying this too much, aren’t you?” you accused.

Namjoon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes dark and unreadable now. The teasing curve of his mouth softened into something slower, heavier.

“Immensely. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?” you whispered.

He tilted his head, dimples fading, voice dropping lower. “If you wanted my attention that badly… why didn’t you just tell me?”

Your throat closed, the truth bubbling out before you could stop it. “Would you have given it to me if I had?”

The words hung there, sharp and trembling, and for a moment you hated yourself for asking.

But Namjoon stilled.

His smile faltered, dimples vanishing, replaced by something hotter, heavier, rawer.

He stood slowly, his chair scraping the floor, and before you could blink, he was beside you. He bent down until his breath brushed your cheek, his voice rough and quiet against your skin.

“Careful what you ask for, kid,” he murmured, no teasing now, only warning laced with want. “Because if I start giving you my attention… I won’t be able to stop.”

Your breath hitched, the sound swallowed by the crash of your heart, and then his lips were on yours—hot, insistent, and devastatingly real.

The kiss started soft—almost cautious, like he was giving you the chance to pull away. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb tracing a featherlight path over your cheekbone.

His lips were soft but firm, and when his tongue brushed against yours, you gasped, your hands fisting in his shirt. And the moment you leaned in, just a little, his restraint cracked like glass.

The kiss deepened, grew messier—hungrier.

He tilted his head, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate sweep that stole your breath. You could taste the faint burn of whiskey on his tongue, the heat of him radiating through every inch of space between you.

His other hand found your waist, then your lower back, pressing you into him until your curves pressed perfectly against the hard lines of his body.

The world around you blurred—the music, the clinking of glasses, the hum of laughter.

It all faded until there was only him.

The low sound he made against your lips vibrated through you, something between a growl and a groan. You felt it deep in your stomach, pooling hot and dizzy.

When he finally broke the kiss, both of you were breathing hard.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like the word had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

“We shouldn’t… I don’t want to scare you.”

You trembled, lips still parted, heart hammering.

“You’re not,” you breathed, your voice a shaky whisper. “You’re driving me insane.”

He laughed softly—half disbelief, half desire, and his thumb brushed over your swollen bottom lip.

“If we keep going,” he said quietly, eyes dark and searching yours, “I won’t be able to stop until I’ve ruined you for anyone else.”

You swallowed hard, pulse beating in your ears.

“Then ruin me,” you whispered.

That was it—the last thread of control snapped.

He exhaled sharply, grabbed your hand, and stood, tugging you out of the booth. The look in his eyes was molten, determined, almost predatory—but his hand was steady, guiding you through the crowd like you were something fragile and precious.

You barely noticed the stares, the music, the dim lights as he led you toward the stairs at the back of the bar.

His grip tightened just slightly when you stumbled, and he looked over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth curving up into a wicked, breath-stealing smile.

“Last chance to turn back,” he murmured.

But you only stepped closer, pressing your palm against his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart beneath your fingers.

“Not a chance.”

He didn’t ask again.

In one swift motion, he pulled you into him, his lips crashing against yours once more—rougher this time, full of everything he’d been holding back.

And as he backed you toward the shadowed stairwell leading to the hotel above, every step felt like falling deeper into something dangerous, inevitable, and utterly intoxicating.

The hotel room was small but cozy.

The bed was a sea of white sheets, and Namjoon closed the door behind you with a quiet click that felt like the sound of a decision being made.

He turned to you, and the air shifted—charged, electric.

“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice soft but laced with something deeper, something that made your thighs clench.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you said, stepping closer.

He tilted his head, his eyes softening as he studied you.

“I’m asking because it’s your first time, angel,” he said gently, and the way he knew you so well—knew this intimate detail you’d never shared—made your cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and warmth.

“You… you know me too well,” you mumbled, flustered, looking down at your feet.

He reached out, tilting your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“I’ve known you forever,” he said, and his eyes were steady, but his thumb stroked your jaw like you were fragile glass.

“Of course I know you. And tonight…” His voice dipped, teasing but low, as if even he didn’t want to break the moment. “Tonight, I’m going to know you even better. You ready for that, sweetheart?”

You didn’t trust your voice.

You just nodded.

Your heart was beating louder in your chest, and your body already felt like it belonged to him. When his hands skimmed down to the hem of your dress, he paused again—silent, waiting for you to let him.

You gave a tiny nod, and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath forever.

The dress came off in one smooth motion, leaving you trembling in your bra and panties. His eyes darkened, but there was still something reverent there, like he was looking at something he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch.

His hands hovered over your skin, but didn’t yet land.

“God…” he breathed, and it wasn’t filthy.

It was almost worshipful.

“Look at you.” When his fingers brushed over the lace of your bra, teasing the hardened peaks of your nipples, the sound you made was soft and unguarded.

He smirked faintly at the noise but didn’t rush, his thumb circling one sensitive bud, watching your reaction with sharp focus.

“You like that?” he murmured, his voice turning low, rough. “My sweet little neighbor, so shy but so damn needy for me.”

“Namjoon…” you whined, your voice a fragile mix of need and nerves. “Please, don’t tease.”

“Oh, but you sound pretty when you beg,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips even as his eyes softened again. His hand slid lower, grazing the edge of your panties.

His finger pressed lightly against the damp spot there, and the groan that left him was low and almost filthy. “You’re already soaking through these,” he said, voice breaking slightly.

“All this for me?”

You nodded helplessly.

“Please,” you whispered, hips pressing toward his hand.

“I need you, Joon.”

Something in his face flickered then, like your plea had shattered whatever restraint he had left. He hooked his fingers into your panties and slid them down your legs, leaving you bare except for your bra.

He knelt between your thighs, eyes dark and soft all at once. “Look at this pretty pussy,” he said, but even the filthy words sounded reverent. “So wet, so ready for me.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then another closer to your core. “You’re fucking perfect.”

His lips found you, kissing your pussy softly, and you gasped, hands fisting the sheets. His tongue flicked out, teasing your clit with slow, deliberate licks, and he groaned against you, the vibration making you tremble.

“You taste so fucking good,” he said, his voice muffled as he continued, alternating between kisses and teasing licks. “Could eat you out all night, make you come until you’re crying for me.”

“Namjoon, please,” you whimpered, your hips moving against his mouth. “Need more, need you inside me.”

He pulled back, lips glistening, and gave you a look that was so soft it nearly undid you. “Patience, angel,” he murmured.

“I’ve got to make sure you’re ready.”

His fingers replaced his mouth, tracing soft circles over your clit until your thighs trembled. Then, slowly—so slowly, you felt his fingertip press against your entrance.

He paused, eyes flicking up to yours, silently asking.

You nodded, breath catching.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I want it.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice low and reassuring. “Just breathe for me, alright?”

He eased one finger inside, inch by inch, his movements unhurried, gentle. The stretch made you gasp—foreign, new, but not painful. He stilled immediately, his thumb brushing soothingly over your hip. “Talk to me, angel. You okay?”

You nodded, shaky but smiling faintly.

“It feels… weird,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “But not bad. Just… different.”

He smiled, that soft, dimpled kind that made you melt.

“That’s normal,” he said, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re doing perfect. Let your body get used to it.”

He waited, tracing small circles over your clit again until your breathing steadied. When your hips began to rock toward his hand, he chuckled softly.

“There she is,” he murmured. “Starting to feel good now?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, voice trembling with need.

“It feels… better. It feels really good.”

“That’s my girl.” His tone dropped, still gentle but full of something deeper, reverent. “You ready for another?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut as you whispered,

“Yeah. I trust you.”

He kissed the inside of your knee, then carefully slid in a second finger beside the first. The stretch made your breath hitch, your muscles tightening instinctively.

He paused again, patient, his thumb drawing slow circles over your clit to help you relax.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Don’t fight it. Let me in.”

And when you did—when your body melted around him—the ache turned into something delicious.

You moaned softly, your walls clenching around his fingers.

“There you go,” he whispered, voice thick with praise. “You’re opening up so beautifully for me. Feels good now, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, eyes fluttering open to meet his. “So good.”

You did, letting out a shaky breath as he worked you open, curling his fingers just right until your hips lifted involuntarily.

“Feels so good,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“That’s my girl,” he said, and the praise in his voice made you shudder. He added a third finger slowly, stretching you further. “You’re taking my fingers so perfectly. Can’t wait to feel you around me.”

“It’s… a lot,” you admitted, voice trembling. “But it feels good now. Really good.”

He exhaled, relief flooding his features as he kissed your collarbone. “That’s all I needed to hear,” he murmured.

“You’re perfect. Just like this.”

His fingers moved again—gentle, patient strokes inside you, and every curl sent waves of pleasure rolling through your stomach.

He watched the way your lips parted, the way your breath hitched, and his jaw clenched with restraint.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice low and thick with emotion. “That’s me getting you ready for me. Want you comfortable. Want this to feel good, not rushed.”

You nodded weakly, one hand clutching his wrist, the other tangled in the sheets.

“It does,” you breathed. “Feels… amazing, Joon.”

“Yeah?” he smiled softly, his gaze locking on yours. “Then I’m doing something right.”

“Joon,” you begged, your eyes wide and shining. “I’m ready, I swear. I want you so bad.”

He groaned, his fingers still moving as he leaned down to kiss you, his lips soft but hungry. “You’re killing me with that begging,” he said, his voice rough. “You want my cock that bad, huh? Want me to fill you up, make you mine?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Please, Namjoon, make me yours.”

He pulled his fingers out, licking them clean with a groan that made your core clench. “Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he said, his eyes locked on yours.

“Gonna make this so good for you, angel.”

He stripped quickly, climbing back over you.

He was big. Bigger than you’d expected.

And when you looked at him, a flicker of nervousness crossed your face. He caught it immediately, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “Don’t worry,” he murmured.

“We’ll go slow. I’m gonna take care of you.”

When he brushed the tip of his cock against your entrance, he paused again, eyes locking on yours.

“You ready?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I trust you.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and a slight burn. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, and he stilled, letting you adjust.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice tight with restraint, his forehead pressed against yours.

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding, feeling overwhelmed.

“Just… go slow.”

“I’ve got you,” he said, his hands cradling your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

“You’re so fucking tight, angel. Tell me if it’s too much.” He moved again, slower, each inch deliberate as he watched your face, his eyes dark with focus and want.

“Feel that? That’s me stretching you out, making you mine.”

“Namjoon,” you whimpered, clinging to him. Tears prickled at the corner of your eyes, feeling the fullness almost too much but so perfect. “It’s too much, but it feels so good.”

“Yeah?” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as he pushed in another inch, his groan low and primal. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you? My sweet girl, taking my cock like you were made for it.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your hips rocking slightly to meet him.

“Made for you, Joon.”

“Fuck, say that again,” he growled, his hands tightening on your hips as he pushed in further, fully seating himself inside you.

He paused, letting you adjust, his lips trailing kisses along your jaw. “You’re so perfect, so tight around me. Never felt anything this good. Do you know how much I stopped myself all these years.”

You moaned, the stretch intense but easing as you adjusted to his size. “Move, please,” you begged, your voice trembling with need. “I need you to move.”

He did, starting with slow, deep thrusts that made your toes curl.

His hands stayed on your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks, keeping you locked in his gaze. “You think anyone else could make you feel this full?” he growled, his voice low and possessive as his hips snapped a little harder.

“This pussy’s mine now, angel. Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, the word spilling out as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “I’m yours, Namjoon.”

“That’s right,” he said, his thrusts steady but controlled, each one hitting that perfect spot inside you. “No one else will ever touch you like this. No one else gets to feel how fucking tight you are, how you clench around me when you’re close.”

“Joon, please,” you begged, arching into him, your nails raking down his back. “Harder, I can take it, I swear.”

He groaned, his restraint slipping as he picked up the pace, his thrusts deeper, more intense.

“You’re so fucking greedy for me,” he said, his voice rough with need. “Begging for my cock like this, like you can’t get enough. You want it harder, huh? Want me to fuck you until you can’t think straight?”

“Yes, yes, please,” you whimpered, your body trembling as he drove into you, the sound of skin against skin filling the room.

“I want it all, Joon, please.”

“Goddamn, you’re gonna ruin me,” he said, his lips crashing into yours as he thrust harder, his cock filling you so completely you could barely breathe.

“My perfect little angel, taking me so well. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to be fucked by me, filled up until you’re dripping.”

You were spiraling now, the combination of his size, his filthy words, and the way he was hitting that perfect spot pushing you toward the edge. “Namjoon, I’m—”

“Come for me,” he said, his voice a low command as his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles. “Let me feel this pretty pussy come all over my cock. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You shattered, crying out as your orgasm crashed over you, clenching hard around him. He groaned, low and guttural, and slowed his thrusts, holding you through it, chasing his own release.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he groaned, his voice raw. “So fucking perfect, coming all over me like that.”

“Joon,” you whimpered, oversensitive but still clinging to him, your body buzzing with the aftershocks.

“Shh, I’m close,” he murmured, his lips brushing your neck as he thrust slowly, his hips stuttering slightly.

“Gonna fill you up one day, angel. When you’re mine for good, after we’re married, I’m gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll feel it for days.”

His words sent a shiver through you, the filthy promise of a future together making your heart race even as your body trembled.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice soft and desperate.

“Want that, Joon.”

“Not yet,” he said, his voice firm but gentle as he slowed his thrusts, his restraint clear even in his lust.

“You’re still in your final year of graduation, angel. Don’t want to complicate things for you. But fuck, when the time’s right, I’m gonna make you mine in every way.”

You moaned, the thought of it, him claiming you completely, pushing you to the edge again despite your sensitivity.

“Joon, you feel so good,” you gasped, your hands clinging to his shoulders.

He groaned, pulling out at the last second, his release spilling hot across your stomach and chest with a low, guttural moan.

“Fuck, angel,” he panted, his forehead pressed against yours as he caught his breath. “You’re too perfect for me.”

You were still catching your breath when he kissed you, soft and lingering. “You did so good,” he murmured, but there was a glint in his eye that told you he wasn’t done.

He shifted, pulling you onto your side so you were spooned against him, his chest pressed to your back.

“Can you handle more?” he asked, his lips brushing your ear.

You nodded, even though your body was still buzzing.

“Want you,” you said, voice soft but sure.

He groaned—a sound that vibrated through his chest and into you—sliding back inside from behind. The stretch was deeper this time, fuller, more intimate, and you gasped, nails digging into the sheets.

He wrapped his arm around your waist, holding you close as he started slow, deliberate thrusts. “Fuck…” he breathed, his voice almost breaking.

“You feel so good. I could stay inside you forever.”

The words sent a jolt through you.

You clenched around him instinctively, and he hissed, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His hand slid down, fingers circling your clit again, and you whimpered at the sharpness of the overstimulation.

“Too much,” you gasped, your voice trembling—but even as you said it, you pressed your hips back against him.

You didn’t want him to stop.

“I know it’s a lot,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear, his voice steady even as his body trembled behind you. “But you can take it. I know you can. Just breathe, baby. Be my good girl.”

Your body was trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity, but his words—his praise—kept you grounded. His arm stayed firm around your waist, holding you steady as his thrusts grew deeper, filling you in a way that felt almost too much to hold.

“Namjoon…” you whimpered, your voice cracking. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled softly, not cruel but coaxing, almost like a prayer. His fingers on your clit were relentless but precise, drawing circles that made your thighs shake. “You’re perfect. You’re so close. Let go for me. Come again for me, angel. Let me feel it.”

His words tipped you over the edge.

You did, your body shaking as another climax ripped through you, and he followed.

He pulled out at the last second, spilling hot across your lower back with a broken, possessive groan.

“Fuck…” he whispered against your neck, his voice raw, trembling. “Look at you. Marked up, shaking for me. You’re mine, angel.”

You were a mess—shivering, oversensitive, trembling—but he didn’t let you collapse just yet. His lips pressed to your shoulder, soft and grounding, before he guided you gently to straddle him.

“One more,” he murmured, his voice low and dark with need. “I want to see you ride me. Want to feel all of you wrapped around me.”

Your chest tightened at the thought.

Your body still buzzed from your last climax—but looking at him, the way he watched you with a mix of hunger and reverence, something inside you stirred. You nodded, heart hammering, and he lifted you with ease, hands steady on your hips, holding you up like you weighed nothing at all.

The stretch was intense, and you bit your lip, afraid of overwhelming yourself again. He caught the hesitation, his thumbs brushing soothing circles over your hip bones.

“Breathe, angel. I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Go slow. Take your time. I want this to feel good for you, every inch.”

You eased down onto him, hands braced on his chest, feeling the heat and weight of him beneath you. At first, your movements were small, tentative—but the sight of him, head tipped back, lips parted, eyes fixed entirely on you, stirred something fierce.

His hands gripped your hips, guiding you in gentle but insistent circles.

“That’s it… just like that,” he murmured, voice husky, soft but commanding. “Take what you need. Let me feel you.”

Your body responded, slowly at first, then with growing urgency. Every motion sent sparks racing through your core. His praise came in low, filthy murmurs, punctuated with groans that made your stomach clench.

“So fucking perfect… my sweet girl, taking me like this. So good for me.”

Your next orgasm built sooner, softer than before but no less intense. You shuddered against him, gasping, leaning forward to press your lips against his chest, heart hammering in your ears.

He groaned low, his own need breaking through, and pulled out at the last second.

You slid down instinctively, lips and tongue eagerly finding him, and when he came, you swallowed every drop—your hands gripping him, your cheeks flushed, the taste of him mingling with yours.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you sweaty and breathless, your body painted with his release across your stomach, chest, and back.

You felt drunk—not just from the drinks at the bar, but from him, from the intensity of it all, your skin marked and claimed in a way that made your heart race.

He held you there, forehead resting against yours, thumbs stroking over your sides, whispering soft praises you could barely register over your panting.

“My girl… you’re mine,” he murmured. “Every bit of you. Mine.”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close as you both caught your breath. The rain outside was louder now, a soothing sound to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Your body pressed to his, warm and sticky. His hand threaded into your hair, fingers stroking gently, while his lips pressed soft, lingering kisses to your temple, your forehead, your eyes, your nose, you cheeks, your lips.

“I shouldn’t have taken so long to admit it,” he murmured, voice low, almost trembling, tinged with regret and longing.

“I’ve wanted you for… years.”

You laughed, still dazed, your body heavy and warm, your skin sticky with his release. A slight soreness lingered between your thighs, a tender reminder of your first time and the intensity of the night.

“Guess fake-boyfriend plans work,” you murmured.

He groaned softly, nuzzling your shoulder before pinching your side playfully. “Never pull that stunt again,” he said, voice half teasing, half serious. “You’re mine now. No acting required.”

You shifted slightly against him and winced.

Immediately, his hands paused, cupping your face as his eyes softened with concern. “You okay, angel?” His voice was gentle, full of care.

He brushed a damp strand of hair from your face.

“You’re sore, aren’t you?”

You nodded, voice shy, a faint blush coloring your cheeks.

“A little… it’s… new.”

He kissed your temple, his lips warm and lingering.

“Hold on,” he murmured, nuzzling your neck.

“Let me take care of you.” With that, he slipped from the bed and returned moments later, a warm, damp cloth in his hands, his movements deliberate and tender.

“Easy now,” he said softly, eyes locked on yours as he started cleaning you. Every motion was careful, mindful, almost reverent, as he wiped your skin—stomach, chest, back.

You let out a small sigh, body relaxing under his touch.

The ache between your thighs dulled under the warmth and intimacy of his care.

“Better?” he asked, voice low and filled with warmth, his thumb brushing lightly over your shoulder.

“Much,” you whispered, body tingling not just from the touch, but from the way he looked at you—like you were precious, like this connection was sacred.

He set the cloth aside and pulled you back into his chest, pressing you close. “All clean… but still all mine,” he murmured, voice rough with desire softened by tenderness.

A giggle escaped you, your heart full, as you buried your face against him despite the faint ache that lingered.

“Yours,” you breathed, and it felt undeniable.

He shifted, tugging the blanket over both of you, one hand resting protectively over your waist. “Real date tomorrow,” he said, voice firm, grounding. “No bars, no Jungkook, just us.”

You nodded, your eyes heavy as you drifted off in his arms, his warmth surrounding you. As the sound of the rain lulled you to sleep, you knew this was just the beginning.

The morning sun filtered through the hotel curtains, soft and golden, as you slowly woke, squinting against the light and feeling Namjoon’s chest warm under your cheek. Your body ached in the best way, a delicious soreness between your thighs reminding you of last night’s intensity.

You stretched cautiously, wincing slightly, and reached for your phone, squinting at the screen, and froze.

Texts from Jungkook blinked back at you, bold and chaotic:

“Ok, don’t kill me but your mom called me a few minutes ago asking why we’re late? “And you are not picking up your calls.” “So I told her you’re with Namjoon. 😬”

Your eyes widened in horror.

“Oh no. Oh, you absolute idiot,” you muttered, fumbling to unlock your phone. You hit call, and Jungkook picked up immediately, his voice ridiculously cheerful.

“Morning, sunshine!” he chirped, all cheerleader energy.

“What’s up? Too busy getting cozy with Mr. Bestseller to check my texts last night?”

“Jungkook, I’m going to—” you hissed, lowering your voice so Namjoon wouldn’t wake. “You told my mom I’m with Namjoon?! Do you have any idea how much explaining I’m going to have to do now?”

He laughed, obnoxiously proud of himself.

“Listen! She called all worried, like, ‘Where’s my daughter?’ I panicked! I couldn’t lie to her—she’s scary! But hey, the plan worked, didn’t it? I’m basically Cupid. Totally heroic!”

You groaned, pinching your forehead. “Heroic? You spilled my drink, called me ‘bro’ in front of him!”

“Okay, fair,” he said, munching on something suspiciously crunchy. “But look at you now—waking up next to Mr. Dimples himself. Who’s the real winner here? Admit it, I deserve an Oscar.”

Before you could unleash another round of curses, Namjoon stirred beside you, his arm tightening around your waist. He cracked one eye open, clocking the phone in your hand and the scowl on your face.

“Who’s that?” he mumbled, voice heavy and unfairly sexy for someone who just woke up.

“Jungkook. Being a moron!! He told my mom that I'm with you.” you muttered.

Namjoon smirked, sitting up and snatching the phone with playful speed.

“Jungkook,” he said into the receiver, voice dripping with mock gratitude, “thanks for your terrible acting. You’re lucky I don’t send you a bill for emotional damages after that performance.”

“You can take a party from me next time—snacks, drinks, whatever you want. But for now, don’t disturb us. I’ll handle the parents. Don’t worry.”

You could almost see Jungkook cackling on the other end.

“Yo, Hyung! My man! You’re a lifesaver! Alright, fine—I’ll leave you lovebirds alone… but I’m holding you to that party. Make it legendary!”

Namjoon hung up with a dramatic sigh, tossing the phone onto the bed like a mic drop. He turned to you, dimples flashing, and pulled you back into his arms.

“That kid’s a walking disaster,” he said, chuckling.

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “Thanks to Jungkook, my mom’s going to lose it.”

He kissed the top of your head, voice warm and teasing. “Relax, angel. I’ve got years of practice being the perfect neighbor. Plus, I can charm the hell out of your mom. Don’t worry.”

You peeked up at him, smirking despite yourself. “Charm my mom, huh? Bold claim for someone who just woke up looking like… whatever you call this.”

He winked. “Hot mess. Definitely hot mess.”

You giggled, shoving at his chest lightly. “Fine, fine. But you are explaining everything to her.”

“Deal,” he said, sealing it with a kiss to your forehead.

“Now, how about we focus on that real date I promised? No Jungkook, no chaos—just you, me, and maybe some pancakes. Extra syrup. Maybe whipped cream.”

You laughed, heart fluttering, even as you imagined the inevitable family interrogation ahead. “Pancakes sound perfect… but I’m holding you accountable for explaining everything, Mr. Dimples.”

He smirked, pulling you closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Deal, angel. And trust me—we’ll survive your mom. Together.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, but knowing, with Namjoon by your side, you’d really survive it.

A/n: @mrskimjoon, Here you go!!! Sorry for being late!! 💜

The clock ticks past 8 p.m., and your apartment glows with the soft flicker of vanilla-scented candles.

It smells sweet, warm—like you’d hoped tonight would be.

You’ve spent the last hour perfecting every detail for tonight—your birthday, the one Namjoon swore he’d be here for, no matter what his overseas business trip threw at him.

The music low and slow.

The champagne chilling by the bed.

The black lace lingerie hugs your body like a second skin, the thigh straps digging just enough to make you feel deliciously aware of every curve. You smooth your hands over the satin bow tied at the small of your back, smirking at how you know it’ll drive him wild.

It’s the same one he gifted you last year on your anniversary, with that look in his eyes—part love, part hunger.

You’d thought tonight would feel the same.

You even sprayed his cologne on your pillow, desperate to feel closer to him, the scent heavy and familiar, wrapping around you like a ghost of his arms.

You’re ready. So ready.

Your skin is soft from the body oil you rubbed in, your hair falls in loose waves, and you’re practically buzzing with anticipation. Namjoon’s been gone for a week, and the ache for him has been building, that’s left you restless and needy.

You’ve been texting him all day, teasing him with hints about what’s waiting when he gets home. His responses were short.

Busy, he said, but he promised he’d be here.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Namjoon.

His name lights up the screen, and your heart races.

Your lips curve into a grin before you even pick up. You imagine his voice, low and warm, teasing, maybe a little breathless from rushing to get home to you.

You swipe to answer.

“Baby.”

It’s his voice, but not the one you were expecting. It’s soft, yes, but there’s a weight to it. The kind that makes your stomach drop before he even says the words.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, and the apology already feels like the start of heartbreak. “My flight’s delayed. I won’t make it back tonight.”

The world stills.

The smile that had bloomed on your lips falters, collapsing into silence. For a heartbeat, you just sit there, frozen, staring at the candles.

They flicker mockingly.

“What?” The word comes out sharper than you intend, trembling with disbelief. “You promised, Joon. You said—”

“I know,” he cuts in gently, the guilt in his voice only making it worse. “It’s out of my control, baby. I swear, I wanted nothing more than to be there with you tonight.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, trying not to cry.

You can hear the airport in the background, distant announcements, murmurs of other travellers, all moving on with their lives while yours pauses.

Your gaze drops to yourself—the lace, the ribbons, the effort—and the bitterness hits you like a wave. You laugh, a broken, humorless sound.

“So... I just sit here, all dressed up, waiting like some lovesick idiot?”

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

You can hear the strain in his voice now, the way he’s trying to keep it together. “You’re not an idiot.”

“Feels like one,” you whisper.

Your throat tightens as you trace the rim of the champagne glass, watching the bubbles rise and burst. “I wanted tonight to be… perfect.”

“I know,” he breathes. “And I hate that I’m not there to make it that way. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

You bite your lip, the familiar sting turning hot, teasing.

“So that’s it? You just leave me here… looking like this?” Your hand drifts over your body, sliding over the lace cups of your bra, your fingers lingering on the satin bow at your back.

“Do you know how much I’ve been waiting for you?”

There’s a pause. A long one.

You can almost hear him swallowing on the other end, trying to control himself.

“I… I know,” he says, low, uneven.

“Oh, Joon,” you whisper, your voice dropping into a sultry, desperate taunt. “I can feel every inch of this lingerie, every curve you love. And you’re… not here. You’re making me so impatient…”

You let your hand drift lower, teasing yourself slowly, letting the phone capture every moan and shiver. “God, I wish you could see me, feel me… touch me. I’m already half done… thinking about you.”

The sound he makes is a deep, frustrated groan.

“Behave,” he growls, low and dangerous.

“You don’t want to start without me.”

“I can’t help it,” you admit breathlessly, the words dripping with need. “I need you. I’m soaked, Joon… and it’s all for you. Can you imagine me like this? Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself then.”

Another pause.

His voice drops even lower, tense, rough. “Stop teasing me. Please. I… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

But the call ends before you can say goodbye.

And for a moment, you just sit there, surrounded by the glow of candles meant for two, wearing the lingerie meant for him.

The air smells like his cologne.

But the bed feels too big.

And your birthday suddenly feels like just another night you’ll spend missing him.

You toss the phone onto the bed with a frustrated huff, your bottom lip jutting out in a pout. You flop back, staring at the ceiling and the candles flicker, throwing shadows that seem to mock you.

And the black lace suddenly feels suffocating, tight, too tight.

You’re annoyed, pent-up, and the thought of waiting another day makes you want to scream. You grab a pillow and toss it across the room, watching it bounce off the wall with a dull thud.

You’re about to rip the thigh straps off when there’s a sharp knock-knock at the door.

You freeze.

Your first thought is confusion—you didn’t order anything.

No late-night takeout, no deliveries.

A flicker of annoyance mixes with curiosity as you tug your silk robe around your shoulders, tying it loosely over the lingerie, and pad toward the door. “Who the hell would show up unannounced now?” you mutter under your breath.

You swing the door open, ready to scold whoever it is.

And there he is.

Namjoon.

All black—coat, shirt, jeans.

His hair is messy from traveling, dark strands falling over his eyes, jaw tight like he’s been holding himself back for hours. And then his gaze lands on you. Takes in the lace peeking out of the robe, the way you’re standing there.

His lips curl into something that’s equal parts danger and desire.

“So,” he says, low and rough, “you’re just sitting here like this? For anyone to see?”

Your mouth goes dry, brain scrambling. “You—wait, you said—”

He steps inside, shutting the door with a soft thud, eyes never leaving yours. “Did you really think I’d let my girl spend her birthday alone? You should know better than to doubt me.”

His voice softens as he notices your glistening eyes, the sting of his earlier lie hitting you all at once. Your chest tightens, tears threatening to spill, but there’s relief too that it makes your stomach flutter.

“Joon,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“I thought you weren’t coming. I thought…”

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer.

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that escape. “I’m here, baby. I’d never miss your birthday. You know that, right?” His forehead presses to yours, warm and steady.

“I wanted to surprise you. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

A soft laugh escapes you, half-sob, half-relief. “You’re such a jerk,” you murmur. “I was so mad at you.”

“I know,” he says, lips brushing your temple, hands sliding down to rest on your shoulders. “But I’m here now. And I’m gonna make it up to you. You still want me, birthday girl?” His voice is teasing, but full of something that makes your heart skip.

“Always,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “I missed you so much.”

“Missed you more,” he murmurs, husky, as his lips brush yours in a slow, soft kiss.

But there’s fire in his eyes, the promise of more.

The air between you crackles.

He grabs your waist, pinning you lightly until your back is against the wall. The robe slips open just enough, and his hands find the lace at your hips, digging in gently.

“This,” he growls, tugging slightly at the straps, “is mine. You don’t get to tease me on the phone and think there won’t be consequences.”

“Joon,” you breathe, half-laughing, heart pounding, dizzy with longing. “You lied to me.”

“And you fell for it,” he whispers against your ear, hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “I wanted to see how desperate you’d get. And baby… you didn’t disappoint.”

Before you can retort, he rips the robe off completely, letting it pool on the floor. His hands are everywhere—palming your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp, then delivering a sharp slap that stings just right.

You arch into him, and he chuckles, dark and low.

“Touching yourself the second I hung up?” he says, voice dripping with mock disapproval. “You really don’t know how to behave.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off by grabbing your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes are molten, and you feel your thighs clench involuntarily.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says.

“I know exactly what you were about to do.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond.

His mouth crashes into yours—hot, bruising, all teeth and tongue.

The kiss isn’t soft or gentle. It’s a claim.

You moan against his lips, your fingers curling into his shirt, yanking him closer until there’s no space left between you.

He groans when you tug, pressing his body against yours, the rough denim of his jeans scraping against the bare skin of your thighs. You can feel him thick, hard, pulsing against your hip and it makes your head spin.

You break the kiss just long enough to gasp, “Joon—please—”

He grins against your jaw, nipping at your skin. “Please what, baby?”

“Bedroom,” you breathe, voice trembling as your nails dig into his shoulders. “Take me to bed.”

He chuckles, dark and low, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t even wait for that, huh?” His hand slides down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze that makes you gasp again.

“Not when you kiss me like that,” you whisper, eyes glazed with need.

“Bedroom’s too far,” he mutters against your lips, his voice low and rough with need.

Before you know it, he’s got you pinned against the hallway wall, one hand gripping your wrist and pinning it above your head. The other hand slides between your legs, finding the damp lace and pressing hard enough to make you whimper.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he says, voice rough with want. “This all for me, or were you really gonna take care of it yourself?”

“All for you,” you gasp, rocking your hips into his hand, desperate for more.

“Good girl,” he says.

He pulls his hand away just as you start to grind against him, and you whine in protest. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say so. You wanted this birthday cock so bad, you’ll wait.”

You’re about to snap back, but he grabs your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle. He pulls your head back, exposing the soft sensitive skin of your throat.

His lips trail along it, hot and feather-light at first, then teasing, dragging against your pulse with a sharp scrape of his teeth that makes a shiver run down your spine.

“Say it,” he demands, voice low and dangerous. “Say whose pussy this is.”

“Yours,” you whisper, barely able to think through the haze of want.

“Louder.” His hand tightens in your hair, and you moan, the sound echoing in the quiet apartment. “Or I’ll make you scream it.”

“Yours, Joon!” you cry, your voice breaking as his fingers slip back between your thighs, teasing but not giving you what you need.

He smirks, satisfied, and releases your wrist to lift you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you toward the bedroom. You can feel the raw heat radiating from his body, the tension in his muscles, the way he’s barely restraining himself.

And it makes your pulse spike.

He doesn’t even make it to the bedroom.

Just a few steps, just to the edge of the living room—before he’s pressing you against another wall, too impatient to wait another second.

He yanks the lace panties aside, and his fingers slide inside you, rough and fast, curling against that spot that makes you see stars. He hits that spot perfectly, relentlessly, and your head falls back, back arching against the wall.

“Oh, fuck!” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders,

He growls, low and possessive, his thumb brushing and circling your clit in a maddening rhythm.

“Look at you,” he hisses, voice trembling with his own desire. “Falling apart already. You think you can tease me like that… think you can get away with it?”

His fingers pump inside you, unrelenting, each stroke making your knees shake, your breath catch, just enough to drive you wild but not enough to finish.

You can feel him everywhere.

His finger, his hunger, the way he owns you completely—and the thought drives you even wilder, desperate for more, aching for the moment when you can’t hold back at all.

“You’re the one who lied,” you shoot back, voice shaky but defiant, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Fucking with me on my birthday? You’re an asshole.”

He laughs, low and dark, a sound that makes your stomach tighten and your thighs clench without thinking.

“Oh, baby,” he growls, voice thick with hunger, “you have no idea how much I’m gonna fuck with you tonight.”

He pulls his fingers out between your legs, leaving you raw and aching, and you whine, desperate, your body aching for more. He licks his fingers slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Patience,” he murmurs, voice a dangerous promise.

“You’ll get exactly what you deserve.”

Before you can protest, he carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing, and kicks the door open with a force that makes the candles flicker.

The air feels electric.

He tosses you onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under you, and stands at the edge, unbuttoning his shirt with agonizing slowness.

His eyes rake over you, taking in the black lace clinging to your skin, the way your chest heaves, the slickness between your thighs.

“Take it off,” he orders, voice low and commanding, nodding at the lingerie. “Slowly. I want to see what’s mine.”

You bite your lip, loving the way his voice makes every nerve on your skin on fire.

You unhook the bra, letting it fall, your breasts spilling free.

His eyes darkening at the sight.

Then, you take your time sliding the panties down, leaving the thigh straps for last, knowing how much he loves the way they frame your curves.

When you’re finally bare, he lets out a low, throaty groan, his hands clenching at his sides as if he’s holding himself back, and the heat between you both thickens, pulsing with need that can’t be ignored.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, climbing onto the bed.

He’s still half-dressed, jeans slung low on his hips, and the sight of his bare chest, all hard lines and smooth skin, makes your mouth water. “Get over here.”

You crawl toward him, but he grabs your hips, flipping you onto your back with a roughness that makes you gasp. He yanks his jeans down, freeing himself, and your breath catches at the sight of him—hard, thick, and ready to ruin you.

“Ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your thighs as he pulls you over him. “Take what you begged for.”

You straddle him, hands pressing against his chest for balance as you slowly sink down onto him, every inch dragging out the tension between you.

He’s so big that it stretches you in the best, most delicious way, and you take your time, teasing him with every deliberate, slow move. Your hips roll in lazy, torturous circles, barely moving, just enough to make him react.

You feel his jaw tighten, his fingers digging into your thighs, and you can see the raw hunger in his eyes as they watch your breasts sway with each movement.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groans, his hands sliding up to grip your waist firmly. “You think you can tease me like this? Moving so slow when you know I’m dying to ruin you?”

He delivers a sharp slap to your ass, the sting making you gasp and clench around him.

You smirk, leaning forward to brush your lips against his, your voice a sultry taunt. “Maybe I like seeing you squirm. Bet you’re regretting that phone call now, huh?”

Another hard spank lands on your ass, and you moan, the pain mixing with pleasure. “Keep talking shit, baby,” he growls, his hand coming down again, harder this time, making your hips jolt.

“I’ll fuck that attitude right out of you. Move faster.”

You give him a defiant grin, picking up the pace just a fraction, your hips bouncing now, your breasts jiggling with each movement.

“This fast enough for you?” you tease, your voice dripping with mockery. “Or you gonna beg for it?”

He spanks you again, the crack echoing in the room, and you whimper, your body trembling from the heat of it.

“Beg?” he scoffs, his hands gripping your hips so hard you know they’ll bruise. “You’re the one who’s gonna be begging when I’m done with you. Now fucking move.”

You follow his command, but only to make him lose control.

You start moving faster, bouncing harder on him, your thighs burning with every motion. The sound of your skin slapping against his fills the room, hot and heavy.

Your breasts bounce wildly, and he groans, his eyes locked on them.

His hands move up to grab them, massaging roughly, fingers pinching your nipples in a way that makes you cry out.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, voice rough and filthy.

“Bouncing on my cock like you were made for it. You love this, don’t you? Taking me so deep you can barely breathe.”

“Shut up,” you gasp, but your voice betrays how much you’re loving it, your body trembling as you grind against him. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Full of myself?” He laughs, low and dangerous, and thrusts up into you, making you cry out as he squeezes your breasts harder, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive nipples.

“I’m full of you, baby. This pussy’s so tight, so fucking wet for me. You’re dripping all over my cock, aren’t you?”

You moan, unable to form a coherent response, your nails digging into his chest as you bounce harder, chasing the high.

“Joon, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, one hand sliding to your ass, spanking you again, the sharp sting making you clench around him. “Keep riding me like that. Show me how bad you want it. Show me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whimper, your body shaking as you move faster, desperate now. “Fuck, I’m yours.”

He grins, wicked and possessive, and flips you onto your back without warning, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.

The other hand grips your thigh, spreading you wide as he slams into you, the bedframe rattling with the force of it.

“Damn right you’re mine,” he snarls, his thrusts brutal, each one hitting so deep you can’t stop moaning. “This pussy belongs to me. Say it.”

“Yours,” you cry, your voice breaking as he pounds into you, relentless. “It’s yours, Joon, fuck!”

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls, his lips brushing your ear, his voice dripping with filth. “So tight, so wet, taking me like you were made for this cock. You love it when I fuck you like this, don’t you? When I make you scream?”

“Yes!” you sob, your body trembling, every nerve on fire.

“Fuck, I love it, I love you—”

He groans at that, his thrusts growing even rougher.

“You love me, huh? Then take it, baby. Take every fucking inch. You’re gonna feel me for days.”

He slows suddenly, torturously, dragging out each thrust until you’re writhing beneath him. “Please,” you whimper, your body shaking on the edge, desperate for release. “Joon, I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, his hand sliding to your throat, holding you there, his thumb brushing your pulse point. “You’ll take everything I give you, and you’ll fucking love it. You don’t get to come until I say so. You wanted this, begged for it. Now you’re gonna earn it.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, half-defiant, half-pleading, your nails clawing at his back.

He laughs, dark and filthy, and spanks you again, the sting making you moan louder. “Oh, I’m fucking you, baby. And you’re gonna thank me for it.” He slips his fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.

“Suck,” he orders, his voice low and commanding.

“Suck my fingers like you’d suck my cock.”

You obey, your lips closing around his fingers, sucking hard, your tongue swirling around them as he watches, his eyes dark with lust.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, thrusting harder, his other hand circling your clit just enough to drive you insane but not enough to let you come. “Say it. Thank me for your birthday gift.”

“Thank you,” you mumble around his fingers, your voice muffled, eyes watering from the intensity.

“Louder,” he demands, his thrusts relentless, the bed creaking under the force. “Say it like you mean it.”

You pull your mouth free just enough to scream, “Thank you, Joon!” as tears prick your eyes, his fingers circling your clit faster, pushing you to the edge again and again, only to pull back.

“Fuck, thank you, Joon, please—”

“Please what?” he taunts, his thrusts brutal now, the bedframe slamming against the wall. “You want to come? You want me to let you? Beg for it, baby. Let me hear how bad you need it.”

“Please, Joon… please, I can’t take it anymore,” you sob, voice wrecked and trembling. “Please let me come on your cock, please—fuck—I’m dripping for you, I’m begging, I’ll do anything, just let me cum all over you, Joon, please…”

“That’s it,” he growls, his fingers circling your clit faster, his thrusts brutal and unforgiving. “Beg for my cock like the needy little thing you are. You’re mine, aren’t you? Say it.”

“Yours... All yours,” you sob, voice breaking. “Fuck me, ruin me—please. I’ll take it, all of it, just don’t stop. Make me come, make me scream your name—please, please, I’m begging you.”

He finally loses control, thrusts driving deep and fast, fingers working inside you with relentless precision.

“Fuck… fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, voice rough, pressing you into the mattress as your walls clamp down around him.

You can’t hold back, arching into him, screaming, “Joon! I’m coming! I’m yours—oh, god, don’t stop!”

He doesn’t, pushing you past every limit, dragging you into overstimulation until your body shakes, whimpers spilling from your lips.

“Shh… that’s it, baby, come for me,” he huffs, grinding into you with every ounce of need.

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, convulsing, eyes squeezing shut as you scream his name. “I’m yours, I’m yours, Joon!”

He groans gutturally, face buried in your neck, hips stuttering as he spills inside you. “Fuck… you’re mine, all mine,” he pants, hands gripping your thighs so tightly you know bruises are coming.

You cling to him, panting, sweating, bodies slick together, every inch trembling with overstimulation and bliss.

The room is thick with the scent of sex and candle wax, and you both just lie there for a long moment, gasping and tangled in each other.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest heaving against your back.

His lips find your skin immediately, showering you with soft, tender kisses along your shoulder, up the curve of your neck, across your jaw, and finally landing on your lips in a slow, loving press.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he whispers between kisses, his voice warm and full of love. “I’d never miss it.”

He keeps kissing you, each one lingering longer than the last, as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, his hands gently cradling your face. “You’re so beautiful, you know that? My perfect girl.”

You’re too wrecked to move, but you smile, your body melting into his as he continues to pamper you with affection, his lips brushing every inch of exposed skin he can reach.

“You okay, love?” he murmurs, his voice soft as he pulls back to look at you, his eyes searching yours with concern. He runs his fingers gently over your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I went pretty hard on you.”

“More than okay,” you murmur, turning your head to nuzzle into his chest, your heart swelling at his tenderness. “You’re insane, you know that?”

He chuckles, low and warm, pulling you closer. “You love it.”

You blush, your heart fluttering as he kisses you again, slow and sweet, his hands stroking your sides gently.

“Hold on,” he says softly, untangling himself from you with a reluctant smile. “Let me take care of you properly.”

He slips out of bed, and you watch as he disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp towel. He kneels beside you, his touch careful and gentle as he cleans you up, wiping away the sweat and slick with slow, deliberate movements.

“There we go,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead when he’s done.

“All taken care of.”

He tosses the cloth aside and presses another kiss to your temple, then your nose, making you giggle weakly.

“Hold on a sec,” he says, his voice playful now.

“I’ve got one more surprise for you.”

He leaves the room, and you hear him moving around in the living room. He’s back in a moment, carrying a small, beautifully decorated cake—your favorite, rich chocolate with layers of creamy strawberry filling.

“Look at this,” he says, his smile boyish and proud, his dimples making your heart skip. “Got your favorite just for you. No birthday’s complete without it.”

He lights a single candle on the cake, the tiny flame dancing as he holds it up for you. “Make a wish, my love.”

You laugh, weak and soft, and blow out the candle, your wish already granted with him by your side. He cuts a small slice, scooping a bit of the rich frosting with his fingers and bringing it to your lips.

“Open up,” he teases, and you do, letting him feed you. He deliberately smears a bit of frosting on your lips, grinning as he leans in to kiss it off, his tongue lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re a mess,” he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Says the guy who just wrecked me,” you retort, giggling as he pulls you back into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.

He hums softly, a lullaby-like sound, and starts to massage your shoulders, his strong hands gentle now, working out the tension. “Gotta take care of my girl,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head.

“Best birthday ever, right?”

You nod, your heart swelling as you snuggle closer, his warmth enveloping you.

“Best gift ever,” you whisper, already drifting off, safe and loved in his arms.

A/n: Whoever requested this, I hope you enjoy it. And sorry for being too late.😅💜

The campus café was loud in the comfortable, familiar way—espresso machines hissing, someone laughing too hard near the counter, chairs scraping against the floor. The smell of burnt coffee beans hung in the air.

You were squeezed between Mia and Lena at a small round table, your iced americano sat in front of you on the table.

You stirred it slowly, barely paying attention.

“Look at him,” Mia murmured, leaning closer to you, eyes sparkling with mischief.

You followed her gaze.

Kim Namjoon sat alone at a corner table, legs stretched awkwardly under it, a thick philosophy book open in front of him. His glasses were sliding down his nose again, and every few seconds he pushed them back up without even looking away from the page. His brows were furrowed in concentration, lips moving silently as if he were arguing with the text.

Lena let out a quiet laugh. “Tell me how the president of the Single Club looks like a Greek God and still hasn’t been kissed.”

“He’s not ugly-single,” Mia added. “He’s just… tragically awkward.”

You watched him smile suddenly... small, private, as if something in the book amused him. A dimple appeared, deep and unfair.

“He’s not awkward,” you said without thinking. “He’s just… shy.”

Mia’s grin widened. “Oh? Someone’s defending him.”

“I’m just saying,” you shrugged, trying to sound casual. “He’s nice. And smart. And he actually listens to people.”

“That’s exactly why this is so sad,” Lena said. “All that potential. Wasted.”

Mia leaned back in her chair, tapping her finger against her cup. “I dare you.”

You glanced at her. “Dare me what?”

“I bet you can’t make him fall for you,” Mia said lightly. Then she leaned in, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “Better yet... make him lose his virginity.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “What?!”

Lena burst out laughing. “Oh my god, Mia!”

“What?” Mia shrugged, completely unapologetic. “Don’t act shocked. This is you we’re talking about.”

You frowned. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It kind of is,” Lena said, still smiling. “Every time you flirt with someone, they end up obsessed. Or dating you. Or crying over you.”

“Or all three,” Mia added. “You don’t even try. You just talk, smile, listen... and boom. Men folded.”

“That doesn’t mean...” you started.

“He’s literally the eternal virgin president,” Mia cut in. “And you’re confident, warm, experienced—”

“This is not a LinkedIn pitch,” you muttered.

Mia laughed. “Come on. We tease you because it’s normal for us. You’ve always been the one who knows what she wants. Who isn’t awkward about dating.”

Lena nodded. “And Namjoon? He’s the opposite. Sweet. Nervous. Totally out of his depth.”

Mia’s grin softened just a little. “We’re not saying use him. Just… prove you still have your magic. And you have been single for past few months... so it's not like you are playing with him.”

You stared into your cup, ice clinking softly as it melted.

“Loser buys drinks for a month,” Mia finished smugly.

You forced a smile and clinked your cup against theirs.

The first S.A.F.E. meeting was held in a cramped lecture hall that smelled faintly of dust and whiteboard markers. Posters were taped everywhere, the title written in bold Comic Sans:

S.A.F.E. — Singles Are Freaking Enough A safe space for single people to socialize, make friends, and maybe fall in love.

Namjoon stood at the front, clutching a stack of papers like a lifeline. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, then started speaking too fast.

“Uh... hi. I’m Namjoon. If you’re here, um… welcome. This club isn’t about fixing anyone. It’s about… not feeling weird for wanting connection.”

He paused, fingers tightening around the papers.

“I started this because I was tired,” he said more softly. “Tired of pretending loneliness doesn’t hurt.”

The room went quiet.

Your smile faded.

Someone raised a hand and started sharing about being new to campus, about eating alone every day. Namjoon listened like it was the most important story in the world, nodding, asking gentle questions, thanking them for being honest.

Another person spoke about a bad breakup. Namjoon leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes warm. “That sounds really painful,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You watched him move through the room—awkward jokes, shy smiles, genuine care. There was no performance, no ego.

Something in your chest twisted uncomfortably.

This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t a challenge.

This was a real person.

You felt your friends’ eyes on you, felt the weight of the bet sitting heavy in your stomach. You laughed when they looked your way, rolled your eyes like you didn’t care.

But inside, your heart was sinking.

Because suddenly, winning didn’t feel exciting at all.

It felt wrong.

You told your friends you were just “helping with the club because of bet.” That was the lie you repeated every time Mia or Lena raised an eyebrow at your sudden interest in ice-breaker games and events organised by the single club.

The first late night was in the campus art room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, tables covered in glitter, construction paper, and half-empty glue sticks.

Namjoon was already there when you arrived, sleeves rolled up, concentrating so hard on cutting straight lines that his tongue poked out slightly at the corner of his mouth.

You dropped your bag and slid into the seat beside him. “Need an extra pair of hands, Mr. President?”

He startled, nearly slicing his finger with the paper cutter. “Oh...hey. You don’t have to. I mean, I usually do this alone...”

“Which is exactly why I’m here,” you said, stealing the cutter from him. “Two sounds better. Also, your lines are tragically crooked.”

He laughed, soft and surprised, dimples flashing. “They are not.”

“They are...” You nudged his shoulder. “Let me fix it.”

For the next two hours you worked side by side. He smelled like fresh laundry and the faint smell of his cologne. Every time he leaned over to point out something on the poster, his breath grazed your neck. You caught yourself holding very still, like sudden movement might scare him off.

“This one’s crooked,” he murmured at one point, reaching across you to adjust a flyer taped to the board. His chest brushed your shoulder... warmth radiated through his hoodie.

You froze.

“Sorry,” he said instantly, pulling back, cheeks flushing pink. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” you laughed, bumping his shoulder on purpose this time. “You’re the president. Boss me around.”

His smile was shy, almost disbelieving. “Okay… maybe tilt it a bit more to the left?”

You did, and when your fingers brushed while passing the tape, neither of you moved away for a second too long.

By the time you left at 1 a.m., your stomach felt strange... light, fluttery. Guilt flickered at the edges.

This was supposed to be a bet... A joke...

So why did you already want to come back tomorrow?

Weeks passed and Coffee runs became routine. You’d text him after his evening lecture... “Caffeine rescue?”, and he’d always answer within minutes, like he’d been waiting.

You started claiming the worn leather couch in the back corner of the library, the one half-hidden by philosophy stacks. Thighs brushing became accidental-on-purpose.

He never moved away.

One night, after the event of a ice-breaker game ended, you were both exhausted and tired. Glue on your fingers, marker smudges on his cheek. He was telling you about the time he tried to ask a girl out in high school and ended with him correcting her grammar and immediately apologizing.

You laughed so hard you snorted, and he looked mortified for half a second before laughing too—deep, free, the kind of laugh he didn’t let most people hear.

When the laughter faded, the air felt different.

“I started the club because… being single felt isolating,” he said quietly, tracing circles on the table with his finger. “Everyone couples up, and suddenly you’re the third wheel. Or maybe fifth. I worry I’m too boring. Too much in my head. Like people get tired of me eventually.”

Your heart twisted. You reached out without thinking, covering his hand with yours. His skin was warm.

“You’re not boring,” you said softly. “You’re thoughtful. That’s rare. That’s… beautiful.”

He looked up, eyes wide behind his glasses, like no one had ever said anything like that to him before. For a moment he just stared, something raw and hopeful flickering there.

Then he turned his hand over, lacing your fingers together almost hesitantly, as if asking permission.

You squeezed back.

Guilt gnawed harder that night. Because the bet wasn’t funny anymore. It felt cruel. And the warmth spreading through your chest when he smiled at you? That was dangerously real.

As the more weeks passed, you noticed everything now.

The way he pushed his glasses up when he was nervous. How his voice got lower when he was tired. The tiny proud smile when someone at the meeting thanked him for organizing these events. The way his gaze lingered on your mouth when he thought you weren’t looking.

Hands lingered too... passing a pen, a coffee cup, a flyer. Every touch lasted half a second longer than necessary.

It was a Thursday evening, library almost empty, rain tapping against the tall windows. You were supposed to be researching ideas for the next club event, but the book lay forgotten between you.

Your heads were bent close over the same page. Shoulders touching. The air smelled like old paper and his cologne.

Your hand brushed his while turning a page. Neither of you moved it away.

The silence stretched, thick and electric.

“Namjoon…” you whispered, not even sure what you were going to say.

He looked up slowly.

His eyes were darker than usual, pupils blown wide. “Yeah?”

You leaned in first... just a fraction. He mirrored you instantly, like gravity. The first touch of lips was feather-light. Tentative. You felt him tremble.

Then you angled your head, pressing closer, and he made the softest sound—a quiet, helpless whimper that shot straight through you.

His hands came up slowly, cupping your face like you were something fragile and priceless. Thumbs stroking your cheeks with reverent care.

You deepened the kiss, parting your lips, tongue tracing the seam of his mouth. He opened for you immediately, eager but unsure, letting you lead.

God, he tasted like the peppermint tea he’d been drinking and something uniquely him. You slid one hand into his hair, tugging gently, and he gasped into your mouth—another soft, needy sound that made heat pool low in your belly.

You took control, licking into his mouth slow and deliberate, showing him the rhythm. He followed beautifully... hesitant at first, then hungrier, tongue sliding against yours with growing confidence.

His glasses fogged.

You smiled against his lips and reached up, carefully removing them, setting them on the table without breaking the kiss.

“Better,” you murmured.

He groaned quietly, hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. You shifted, climbing halfway into his lap on the narrow couch, knees bracketing his thighs.

The movement pressed you flush against him, and you felt the sharp inhale he took through his nose.

The kiss turned messy—wet, open-mouthed, desperate. You nipped his bottom lip and he whined, hips jerking up involuntarily. The sound he made was wrecked, raw.

“Y/N…” he whispered, voice shaky, lips barely leaving yours. “Is this— is this okay?”

“More than okay,” you answered, nipping his lower lip again, softer this time. “You’re doing so good, Joon.”

He whined—a high, wrecked sound that made heat rush through you, and his hips jerked up involuntarily, seeking friction. You rolled down slowly in response, just enough to tease, and he broke the kiss with a gasp.

You soothed the bite with your tongue, then sucked gently on his lower lip. His fingers dug into your hips, not guiding, just holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“Please,” he whispered against your mouth, voice trembling. He didn’t even seem to know what he was begging for... just more.

You gave it to him.

Kiss after kiss, deep and filthy, tongues tangling, breaths mingling hot and fast. You rolled your hips once, slow, feeling him hard beneath you, and he broke the kiss with a choked moan, forehead dropping to yours.

“Y/N...” It was half plea, half prayer.

“So good...” you whispered against his pulse point. “You taste so good, Joon.”

You slowed, not wanting him overwhelmed yet. “We’ve got time,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the sensitive spot just below his ear. “I want to kiss you for hours.”

He tilted his head immediately, giving you more access, trembling under your lips. “Hours sounds… perfect,” he managed, voice cracking.

You laughed softly, nipping his earlobe. “Greedy already?”

He whimpered again, hands flexing on your waist. Gentle, always gentle, even when he was clearly losing his mind.

You pulled back just enough to look at him... lips swollen, eyes glassy, hair mussed from your fingers. He looked utterly and completely overwhelmed.

A book slammed somewhere in the stacks.

You both jumped, reality crashing back.

“Shit,” he panted, forehead still against yours, chest heaving. “I—sorry, I got carried away—”

“Don’t be,” you said, voice husky, thumb brushing his bottom lip. “I liked it. A lot.”

His eyes searched yours, shy and wondering and still hungry. “Really?”

You kissed him once more—soft this time, reassuring. “Really.”

You fixed his glasses for him, fingers lingering on his cheek. He leaned into the touch like a gravity. Your heart was pounding and your body was on fire.

And the guilt? It was drowning now, drowned out by the overwhelming rush of want and affection and something deeper you weren’t ready to name.

Because Namjoon kissed like he was afraid it might be his only chance... like he wanted to memorize you. Gentle, reverent, letting you lead but giving everything he had. And fuck, you were starting to realize you didn’t want this to be a bet at all.

You wanted it to be real.

You barely slept that night.

Every time you closed your eyes you felt his mouth again, heard those soft desperate sounds, saw the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

Next morning, when you walked into the cafeteria glowing, cheeks flushed, lips still a little swollen. Your friends spotted it immediately.

Mia dropped her fork mid-bite. “Holy shit. Look at you.”

Lena leaned forward, grinning like a shark. “You’re literally glowing. What happened? Did you finally seal the deal with Virgin President?”

Your stomach dropped.

Mia gasped dramatically. “Wait—the bet! You’re so close to winning! Tell us everything. Did he confess? Did you get him all hot and bothered?”

They were laughing, excited, like it was still just a hilarious game.

You forced a smile that felt fake. “We… hung out in the library. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Lena scoffed. “Girl, you look like you were thoroughly kissed. Come on, details! How far did you get? Is he as awkward as everyone says?”

Your chest twisted—sharp, painful.

Winning... The word echoed in your head, sour and wrong. Because last night hadn’t felt like winning.

It felt like falling...

Falling hard...

You poked at your untouched yogurt, appetite gone. “It’s not… like that anymore.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “Don’t go soft on us now. A bet’s a bet. Free drinks for a month, remember?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because the thought of “winning” Namjoon... of reducing what happened last night to some trophy in a stupid dare, made you feel sick.

It didn’t feel like a game anymore. It felt like the most real thing you’d ever had.

Guilt hit you like a truck.

Every touch, every look from Namjoon felt tainted. He was falling or already fallen... and it started with a lie.

So you pulled back.

Your replies to his texts became shorter... Colder... Nothing like the paragraphs you used to send back with heart emojis.

You started skipping S.A.F.E. meetings.

“Got a paper due,” you lied to the group chat.

“Family thing,” you told another time.

In the halls, if you spotted his tall figure coming toward you... glasses perched on his nose, backpack slung over one shoulder—you’d duck into the nearest bathroom or pretend to be deep in your phone.

Namjoon noticed right away. Of course he did.

He was observant like that.

At first he tried harder.

Namjoon: Hey, missed you at the meeting tonight. Everything okay? Namjoon: Want to grab coffee tomorrow? I found this new poetry book, I think you’d love. Namjoon: I hope you are OK, just checking in ❤

You left him on read for hours, then replied with one-word answers.

He got quieter.

You could see it happening in real time—his shoulders slumping a little more each day, the dimples disappearing, the way he’d push his glasses up even when they weren’t sliding down. Like he was trying to hide behind them.

One afternoon, you were grabbing coffee with Mia and Lena... the same friends who started this whole mess.

Mia grinned over her latte. “Girl, you’re playing hard to get now? Smart move. He’s probably losing his mind. You’re so close to winning.”

Lena laughed. “Bet he’s writing sad poetry about you right now. Virgin president pining... classic.”

Your stomach twisted so hard you almost dropped your cup.

“Stop,” you said, voice low.

They blinked at you.

“Stop what?” Mia asked, still smiling.

“It’s not funny anymore.” You stared at the table. “It was never funny, actually. But now… it’s definitely not a joke.”

Lena frowned. “Wait, what? You’re not seriously—”

“I like him,” you cut in. “Like, really like him. And every time you guys talk about ‘winning,’ it makes me feel sick. Because he’s a person. He’s kind and smart and he actually cares about people. And I hurt him. I’m hurting him right now.”

Silence. Awkward Silence.

Mia shifted awkwardly. “We were just messing around. It was supposed to be harmless.”

“It wasn’t,” you said quietly. “Not to him. And not to me anymore.”

You stood up, grabbing your bag. “I’m done with the bet. Don’t bring it up again.”

You left them sitting there, mouths open, and walked out into the cold without finishing your drink.

That night, the rain started—hard, relentless tapping against the windows. You were leaving the library late, hood up, trying to dodge puddles, when you heard him.

“Y/N.”

His voice was soft, almost lost in the rain, but it stopped you dead.

Namjoon stood under the library steps, umbrella tilted too far forward so rain dripped onto his shoes. His eyes were red-rimmed, hair damp and messy like he’d been running his hands through it all day. He looked exhausted.

“Hey… can we talk?” he asked. His voice was small, careful, like he was afraid you’d run.

You couldn’t run... Not this time...

You nodded, throat tight.

He stepped closer, holding the umbrella over both of you even though it barely covered him. You walked in silence to the nearest covered bench, rain drumming loud on the metal roof.

You sat. He sat too, leaving a careful foot of space between you.

For a long minute, neither of you spoke.

Then he took a shaky breath.

“Did I… do something wrong?” he asked, voice cracking just a little. “That night in the library... the kiss, everything. If I pushed too far, or made you uncomfortable, I’m so sorry. I’ve been going over it in my head a thousand times and...”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, Joon. It wasn’t you.”

He let out a bitter little laugh, looking down at his hands. “That’s what people always say, right? ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ But maybe it is me. Maybe I really am too much. Too awkward. Talk too much about books and trees and random philosophy stuff nobody cares about. Maybe that’s why no one ever stays.”

His voice broke on the last word.

Your heart shattered.

“Stop,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Please stop. You’re not too much. You’re not boring. You’re not forgettable. You’re…” You swallowed hard. “You’re everything.”

He looked up, confused, eyes glassy.

Tears filled yours fast—hot and unstoppable. You couldn’t hold it in anymore. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Namjoon.”

He froze.

“It started as a bet,” you said, voice shaking. “My friends... they were teasing me about you. About the club, about how you’re always single.”

“They dared me to… to make you fall for me. To sleep with you. ‘Deflower the virgin president.’ It was stupid and mean and I said yes because I thought it would just be some harmless flirting. I didn’t think I’d actually...”

Your words tumbled out messy and fast.

“I didn’t think I’d actually start liking you. Really liking you. And then I did. I fell so hard. Your kindness, your laugh, the way you listen like everything I say matters… I fell in love with you. And that’s why I pulled away. Because every time you looked at me, I felt like a liar. I couldn’t stand it.”

Namjoon had gone very still. His face turned pale and his jaw tightened. He stared at the ground, rain dripping off the sheltered metal roof.

You cried harder. “I hate myself for it. I hate that I hurt you. You deserve someone who was honest from the start. You should hate me.”

Silence stretched—long, heavy, broken only by the rain.

You wiped your face uselessly. “Say something... Please...”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were red, hurt swimming deep in them, but there was something else too.

“I am upset,” he said quietly. “The bet… it hurts... A lot actually... Knowing it started like that.”

You nodded, sobbing softly. “I know... I’m... sorry.”

“But...” he continued, voice trembling, “what hurts more is thinking I lost you. These past few days—thinking I did something wrong, that you got tired of me… that scared me more than anything.”

You stared at him, tears streaming.

He took a shaky breath. “So I need to ask… the feelings you have now. Are they real? Or is it still… part of it?”

“They’re real,” you said immediately, desperately. “God, Namjoon, they’re so real. I love you. I’m in love with you. And I’ve never hated myself more than I do right now for how we started.”

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

Another long pause.

Then he whispered, “I’ve never felt like this about anyone. I’m scared. I’m inexperienced. I’m nervous as hell. But I am glad you are honest with me now and I want you. If… if you still want me.”

You didn’t think. You just moved, crashing into his arms, burying your face in his damp jacket, sobbing apologies over and over.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

His arms came around you slowly, then tight—like he was afraid you’d disappear. He held you so close you could feel his heartbeat racing.

You stayed like that for a long time, rain pouring around you.

Eventually, you pulled back just enough to look at him.

Foreheads touching. Hands tangled.

“I want to take things slow,” he murmured, voice soft and raw. “Well… not too slow... But I want to do this right.”

You let out a wet little laugh, nodding.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Not too slow.”

He smiled—small, shaky, but real. Dimples faint in the dim light.

And under the metal roof, with rain falling all around, he kissed you slow, careful, full of everything you’d both been holding back.

It tasted like forgiveness.

Like a new start.

The first few days after the rain-soaked confession felt like walking on fragile thread. You and Namjoon started dating quietly. No big announcements, no labels shouted from rooftops. Just the two of you figuring it out, one small step at a time.

It began with hands.

The first time he reached for yours was in the hallway between classes. Crowded, noisy, people rushing past with backpacks and coffee cups. His fingers brushed yours lightly, almost accidental. You glanced at him and he was staring straight ahead, cheeks already turning pink, but he didn’t pull away.

You laced your fingers through his.

He let out a tiny, shaky breath and squeezed back, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles.

From then on, it became your thing.

Walking to the library, to the café, across campus—always hand-in-hand. He’d get shy when friends passed by, ducking his head and pushing his glasses up, but he never let go.

“People are staring,” he mumbled one afternoon, dimples flashing even as he blushed.

“Let them,” you said, swinging your joined hands. “I like showing off my boyfriend.”

He stopped walking for a second, eyes wide. “Boyfriend? Finally, we are naming it?”

You laughed softly. “Yeah... That okay with you, President?”

He grinned so big his dimples nearly swallowed his face. “More than okay.”

Stolen kisses in empty classrooms became your new favorite hobby. The first one happened by accident. You were supposed to meet in the library, but it was packed with mid-term panic.

Namjoon texted:

Namjoon: too loud at library. room 204 in the old lit building? it’s always empty this late

You got there first, slipping into the dimly lit classroom. Moonlight came through the tall windows, dust floating in the silver beams. Desks in neat rows, chalkboard still smeared with someone’s half-erased notes.

The door creaked open.

Namjoon stepped in, backpack sliding off his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly, closing the door behind him. A soft click... that echoed too loud.

“Hey.”

You met in the middle of the room. There were no words exchanged... Just a slow, sweet kiss... his hands on your waist, yours on his chest. When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you.”

“We just met two hours ago,” you teased.

“Not enough.”

Long talks about everything and nothing happened in those same late-night classrooms. You’d sit on the edge of the professor’s big desk, legs swinging. He’d lean against it beside you, or pull up a chair so your knees touched.

One night you talked about favorite childhood books until 1 a.m. Another night he confessed with a very shy voice, that he’d written poetry about the rain the day you confessed, but he was too embarrassed to show you yet.

“Read me one line?” you asked, nudging his shoulder.

He thought for a second, then whispered something so emotional.

You kissed him so hard after that he almost fell off his chair. Namjoon was nervous about intimacy. You could feel it every time things heated up a little—his breath catching, hands trembling just slightly.

One evening, curled up on a classroom windowsill watching campus lights twinkle below, he admitted it out loud.

“I’ve… thought about it... A lot... With you.” His ears went crimson. “Like… more than kissing. But I’ve never... obviously—and I don’t want to mess it up or go too fast or...”

You cupped his cheek. “We go at your pace, Joon. Always.”

He nodded, relieved. “I just… really want to touch you. Properly. When it feels right.”

You smiled. “It will.”

It felt right about two months later.

Late night again. Past midnight. Campus quiet except for crickets outside and the low hum of the vending machine down the hall.

You’d been “studying” in the same empty third-floor classroom for hours... really just talking, laughing, stealing soft kisses between pages of notes you weren’t reading.

At some point you ended up in his lap, straddling the bench he was sitting in near the back row. The book slipped from his hands, thumping softly to the floor.

“Y/N—” he breathed, hands hovering at your sides.

You cupped his face and kissed him... deep, hungry, nothing like the soft pecks you’d been sharing. He groaned into your mouth, finally touching you—hands settling on your hips, gripping like he was afraid you’d vanish.

The kiss turned messy fast. Tongues sliding, wet and desperate. You rocked against him slowly, feeling him harden instantly beneath you.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips, voice shaking. “Anyone could walk in.”

“That’s part of the fun,” you murmured, nipping his bottom lip.

He whimpered.

You pulled back slightly, breathing hard.

“Touch me,” you whispered against his lips.

His hands froze. “Here?”

You nodded, glancing at the door. It was closed, but not locked. Anyone could walk in but the risk made your pulse race.

“Yes... Here,” you confirmed, voice low. “I want you to.”

He swallowed, eyes dark. “Okay.”

You reached for the hem of your hoodie and pulled it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the nearest desk.

No bra... His sharp inhale was the loudest sound in the room.

“Fuck,” he breathed, staring. “You’re… beautiful.”

You took his hands—big, warm, trembling, and placed them on your bare breasts.

“Here,” you said softly. “Squeeze them.”

He did. Tentative at first, thumbs brushing your nipples so lightly you shivered. Then firmer when you let out a small moan and rocked forward in his lap.

“Good boy,” you praised, and he groaned, head falling back against the chair.

You kept guiding him. “Harder, Joon. I like it a little rough.”

He obeyed, rolling your nipples between his fingers until they were stiff and aching and you were grinding down on the growing bulge in his jeans.

“Good,” you breathed, voice shaky with how turned on you were. “So good, baby.”

Namjoon’s eyes were blown wide behind his slightly crooked glasses, lips parted as he watched your reactions like he was memorizing every little sound you made.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging gently to tilt his head up. You leaned forward, arching your back so your breasts were right in front of his face.

“Suck,” you whispered, voice husky. “Put your mouth on me.”

Namjoon’s breath hitched. His hands stilled on your breasts, thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks as he stared at them, lips parted.

“Like… here?” he asked softly, almost reverent, one thumb circling a nipple.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Take it in your mouth. Lick me, suck me... however feels good.”

He hesitated for only a second, then leaned in. His lips closed around your left nipple gently at first—warm, wet, careful—like he was tasting something precious. Then he sucked, tentative, tongue flicking experimentally.

You moaned, fingers threading into his hair to hold him there. “That’s good… keep going.”

He pulled off just long enough to murmur against your skin, voice shaky and embarrassed, “I... I mean, it’s not like I’ve never watched porn or anything, but… am I doing it right? Tell me if it’s bad, please. I don’t want to...”

“You’re perfect,” you cut in, guiding him back. “Harder with your tongue. Use a little teeth if you want.”

He made a desperate little sound and dove back in, more confident now... sucking firmer, tongue swirling, grazing the peak with his teeth just enough to make you gasp and grind down harder on his lap.

He switched to the other breast, giving it the same eager attention, wet sounds filling the quiet classroom as he got lost in it.

Your hips rolled faster, clit dragging over the rough denim seam of his jeans in perfect rhythm with his mouth. You were dripping now, soaking through his pants, making the slide slick and filthy.

He pulled back again, lips shiny, eyes wide and dark behind fogged glasses. “You taste so good,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it. “I could do this all night.”

You smiled, breathless, and kissed him deep and messy, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Then you sat back, taking his hands again.

“Now lower,” you whispered. You guided one of his hands down your stomach, under the waistband of your skirt.

His eyes went wide when he realized.

“No panties?” he choked out.

You smirked. “Easy access.”

He groaned again, fingers sliding through your slick folds. You were already soaked.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

“For you,” you said, kissing him messy and open-mouthed. “All for you.”

You started moving again—slow rolls of your hips, dragging your bare pussy along the hard line of his cock through his jeans. The friction was perfect, rough denim against your clit.

Namjoon’s hands gripped your ass now, pulling you closer, helping you ride him.

“Feels so good,” he panted against your neck, mouthing at your skin. “Can’t believe this is happening.”

You sped up, skirt bunched around your waist, breasts bouncing with every grind. His mouth found your nipples again, sucking hard, and you gasped his name.

The classroom echoed with wet sounds—your slick on his jeans, heavy breathing, the creak of the bench.

“Close,” he whimpered suddenly, hips jerking up. “Y/N, I’m gonna...”

“Do it,” you encouraged, grinding harder, clit dragging just right. “Come in your pants for me, baby. I want to feel it.”

That pushed him over.

He came with a broken moan, face buried between your breasts, whole body shaking as he spilled hot and messy inside his boxers. You kept moving through it, drawing it out until he was twitching and oversensitive.

When he finally stilled, panting, you slowed to a gentle rock, kissing his damp forehead, his cheeks, his lips.

He looked up at you... glasses fogged, hair messy, lips swollen... completely undone.

“I just… in my pants… like a teenager,” he mumbled, half-laughing, half-mortified.

You grinned. “Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He pulled you close, arms tight around your bare back.

“I love you,” he whispered into your skin. “So fucking much.”

You kissed the top of his head. “I love you too. And we’re just getting started.”

Outside, campus was silent. Inside, the risk of getting caught only made everything burn brighter.

You stayed like that for a long time—half-naked, hearts racing, clothes ruined.

The rain came down as you stumbled out of the old lit building, laughing breathlessly, clothes clinging to your skin. Namjoon’s jeans were a dark, obvious mess from what you’d done to him in that classroom back row bench, and your skirt was barely covering anything decent.

You ran hand-in-hand across campus, splashing through puddles, until you finally burst into his dorm building soaked to the bone.

The second the door clicked shut of his room, you both stood there dripping on the carpet, staring at each other.

Namjoon pushed his wet hair back, glasses fogged completely. “I, uh… I should probably change pants,” he said, voice sheepish.

You snorted. “Yeah, you made quite the mess of yourself, Mr. President.”

He groaned, covering his face. “Don’t remind me. I can’t believe I came in my jeans like some horny fifteen-year-old.”

“I can,” you teased, stepping closer, water dripping from your hair onto his hoodie. “It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, dimples flashing despite the blush. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.”

You grabbed towels from his closet, tossing him one. Nervous jokes bounced back and forth while you dried off—him muttering about how he hoped no one saw you two sprinting across the quad. You joking about what would have happened if security had caught you both.

Eventually, the laughter faded into something quieter... Hungrier...

You stepped close, fingers curling into the hem of his soaked hoodie.

“Can I?” you asked softly.

He nodded, lifting his arms so you could peel it off.

His shirt underneath clung to every line of his chest and stomach—broad shoulders, toned from all those weekend hikes he loved talking about. You traced the ridges with your fingertips, watching goosebumps rise.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” you murmured.

He huffed a shy laugh. “Stop.”

“I won’t.”

You pushed gently at his chest until the backs of his knees hit the bed. He sat, looking up at you with those dark, nervous eyes.

You straddled his lap slowly, skirt riding up again. His hands immediately went to your bare thighs, thumbs stroking like he couldn’t help himself.

“You look like a pro,” he said, voice low, trying to tease but mostly sounding awed. You laughed softly, rolling your hips once... just enough to feel him already hardening again under you.

“It’s not my first time,” you admitted, brushing his damp hair back. “I’ve been in relationships. Had a few hookups. Nothing serious until… well... until you.”

He nodded, no judgement, no jealousy, just curiosity and that soft vulnerability you loved. “That’s okay. I like that you know what you’re doing. Makes me less terrified I’ll screw this up.”

“Tonight’s about you,” you whispered, cupping his face. “Only you.”

You kissed him slow—deep, deliberate, tasting rain and him. His hands slid up your back under your wet hoodie, hesitant until you arched into him with a soft moan.

You broke the kiss long enough to pull your hoodie over your head. His sharp inhale made you smile.

“Touch me... Joonie,” you said.

He did—reverent at first, palms cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they pebbled. Then bolder, squeezing, rolling them just the way you’d taught him in the classroom.

You rocked against him, feeling him fully hard now, thick and hot.

“Pants off,” you murmured against his mouth.

He lifted his hips so you could tug them down, boxers too. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, flushed dark, the tip already glistening. You wrapped your hand around him slowly, stroking once from base to tip.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head falling back. “Your hand feels—”

“Better than your own?” you teased.

“So much better.”

You slid down to your knees between his legs, kissing a slow trail down his chest, his stomach, nipping at the sharp cut of his hipbone. He was trembling by the time you settled.

“Y/N… you really don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you said firmly, looking up at him. “Let me take care of you.”

He nodded, breath already ragged.

You started with soft licks—long, flat stripes up the underside, swirling around the head, tasting the salty bead of pre-cum. He groaned deep in his chest, fingers threading gently into your hair—not pushing, just holding.

You took him deeper, lips stretching around his girth, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed slow and deliberate. Wet sounds filled the quiet room—obscene and perfect.

“Fuck—your mouth,” he gasped. “So warm. So fucking good.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. You pulled off just long enough to whisper, “You can thrust a little. I can take it.”

He did... careful, shallow pumps into your mouth while you sucked harder, tongue pressing that sensitive spot under the head.

“Please… more,” he begged, voice cracking. “Please, baby, don’t stop... feels too good—”

You took him as deep as you could, hand stroking the rest, twisting just right. His moans turned desperate, thighs shaking.

“I’m close... fuck, I’m so close— baby, please...”

You didn’t pull off.

You sucked harder, swallowed around him, and he came with a broken cry—hot pulses down your throat. You swallowed every drop, milking him gently through the aftershocks until he was whimpering from overstimulation.

When you finally pulled back, lips swollen, he hauled you up into a messy, desperate kiss—tasting himself on your tongue and groaning into your mouth.

“Best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he panted against your lips. “Holy shit.”

You laughed breathlessly. “We’re not done.”

You stood just long enough to pull out of your skirt, climbing back into his lap naked.

His hands roamed everywhere—squeezing your ass, tracing your spine, cupping your breasts again like he couldn’t get enough.

“Condom?” you asked.

“Yeah... Don't worry... I have it... I prepared beforehand just in case we ever...” He fumbled in his nightstand drawer, hands shaking as he rolled one on. You helped, stroking him a few times until he was fully hard again.

Then you rose up on your knees, lining him up.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes locked on where you were about to take him.

You sank down slowly—inch by inch, letting him stretch you open. He was big, thick enough that it burned in the best way.

“So tight,” he groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “Fuck—you feel unreal.”

When you bottomed out, you both stayed still for a moment—just breathing, adjusting, feeling.

“Fuck—you are so big, Joon.” Then you started to move.

Slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding deep, hands braced on his shoulders. His grip on your waist was bruising, guiding you.

“Faster,” he begged softly. “Please, baby... need more of you.”

You picked up the pace, bouncing now... wet sounds echoing, skin slapping skin. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and he couldn’t stop staring.

He leaned forward, sucking one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you clench around him.

“Fuck... do that again,” he gasped. “Love feeling you squeeze me.”

You rode him harder, grinding your clit against his pelvis on every downstroke.

His hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit with surprising accuracy.

“Come for me,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Want to feel it. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock.”

That sent you over... orgasm crashing hard, walls fluttering around him as you cried out his name, nails digging into his shoulders.

He followed seconds later—thrusting up deep, groaning long and low, “I love you... fuck, I love you—” as he came.

You collapsed together, sweaty and trembling, tangled limbs and racing hearts.

He held you so tight, like he never wanted to let go.

Later, after you’d cleaned up and curled under his blankets, he kissed your forehead over and over.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he murmured, still a little dazed.

“Believe it,” you said, tracing lazy circles on his chest. “And it’s going to happen again. A lot.”

He laughed softly, dimples deep. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Next morning, sunlight filtered through the blinds when you woke up—Namjoon already awake, watching you with the softest smile.

“Morning,” he whispered.

“Morning, handsome.”

He’d gotten up at some point and made instant ramen—two steaming bowls on his desk like it was a five-star breakfast.

“I, uh… don’t really cook,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “But I added an egg. That’s fancy, right?”

You sat up, sheet tucked around you, and took a bite. “Best ramen I’ve ever had.”

He blushed crimson. “You’re lying.”

“Nope.” You leaned over and kissed him, tasting spicy broth and him. “You’re adorable when you’re trying to impress me.”

“I’ll always be trying to impress you,” he said quietly, eyes serious.

You set the bowl down and crawled into his lap again.

“You already have me, Joon. Completely.”

He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck.

“You’re everything,” he whispered.

And you knew, without a doubt, that you were his too.

A few months later, the S.A.F.E. club was still going strong—maybe even stronger than before. The ridiculous Comic Sans posters had been replaced with sleeker designs... that was kind of your influence, and attendance had doubled.

Word had gotten around that the club wasn’t just for sad singles anymore. It was a genuinely fun place to hang out, make friends, and yeah, sometimes people left coupled up.

But the biggest change was at the front of the room.

Namjoon wasn’t president anymore.

He’d stepped down at the start of the new semester, handing the reins to a shy sophomore named Minji who’d blossomed under his mentorship.

The handover meeting had been sweet—everyone clapping, a few emotional speeches, someone even baking a cake that said “Thanks, Pres! Forever S.A.F.E. 💜” in purple frosting.

He stood at the front, hands in his pockets, glasses perched on his nose, looking unfairly handsome in a soft gray sweater.

“So,” he started, smiling at the packed room, “this is my last meeting as president.”

A collective “aww” rippled through the crowd, mixed with a few dramatic gasps.

He laughed. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Tragic. But I’m not disappearing. I’ll still be around... probably lurking in the back like a creepy alumni.”

Someone from the front row yelled, “With your girlfriend!”

The room erupted in whistles and laughter.

Namjoon’s ears went pink, but his dimples were on full display. “Yes. With my girlfriend. Who is, by the way, way cooler than I ever imagined.”

You were sitting in the back row like always now—legs crossed, hiding a grin behind your coffee cup. You’d claimed this spot the first meeting after you started dating, and it had become your unofficial throne. Close enough to see him, far enough to pretend you weren’t staring the whole time.

He caught your eye and winked and your heart did the same stupid flip it had been doing for months.

“Before I hand over the reins,” he continued, “I wanted to update the mission statement.”

He turned to the projector, clicking to a new slide.

In clean, simple font:

S.A.F.E. – Singles Are Freaking Enough New mission: Sometimes, you don’t need a club. You just need the right person.

The room went quiet for a second, then burst into cheers and “aww”s again—louder this time. One girl in the front wiped fake tears.

“Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands. “That’s it from me. Your new president is Minji... she’s way more organized than I ever was, and she actually knows how to use Canva without crying.”

Minji, a tiny sophomore with a sharp bob, bounced up to the front, hugging him tightly. “I learned from the best,” she said into the mic. “Even if the best ditched us for love.”

More laughter rippled.

Namjoon bowed dramatically and made his way down the aisle—straight toward you. The room watched shamelessly as he slid into the empty seat beside you, thigh pressing against yours immediately.

“Hi,” he whispered, like there weren’t fifty people pretending not to stare.

“Hi, ex-president,” you whispered back, nudging his shoulder. “Nice speech. Very poetic. Did you practice that mission statement in the mirror?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, leaning closer. “Wanted to sound wise and mature.”

“You sounded like a rom-com lead.”

“Well... Mission accomplished.”

Minji started the actual meeting... icebreakers, event planning, but neither of you were paying attention. Namjoon’s hand found yours under the armrest, fingers lacing like they belonged there. He traced lazy circles on your knuckles with his thumb.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low enough only you could hear, “I used to stand up there and think no one would ever look at me the way I wanted.”

You turned your head, meeting his eyes. They were soft, warm, a little amused.

“And now?”

“Now,” he said, smile slow and devastating, “I have the prettiest girl in the room looking at me like I hung the moon. And I get to take her home later.”

You bit your lip to hide the grin. “Smooth, Kim Namjoon. When did you get that smooth?”

“Practice,” he said, leaning in until his lips brushed your ear. “Lots of practice. Mostly in bed. With you.”

Heat flashed through you. You squeezed his hand in warning.

“Behave,” you hissed. “We’re in public.”

He pulled back just enough to look innocent—which he absolutely did not. “I’m being very good. See? Holding hands. Wholesome.”

Someone two rows ahead turned around, smirking. “You two are disgusting. In the cutest way possible.”

Namjoon laughed, unbothered.

The meeting dragged on—fun, but you barely heard it. You were too busy trading secret smiles, his fingers playing with yours, his knee bumping yours every few minutes like he needed the contact.

When it finally ended, people filed out slowly, a few stopping to say bye to Namjoon or tease you both again. One guy clapped Namjoon on the shoulder. “Happy for you, man. You deserve it.”

Namjoon’s smile went soft. “Thanks. I know.”

Once the room emptied, it was just you two.

He leaned in and kissed you then—slow, sweet, lingering. The kind of kiss that still made your stomach flip months later. When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Take me home?” you whispered.

“Your place or mine?”

“Yours... I like your bed better. And your instant ramen.”

He laughed again, low and warm. “You only love me for my culinary skills.”

“Among other things,” you teased, nipping his bottom lip. “Very specific other things.”

His ears went red.

Even after everything... classroom dry-humping, dorm-room marathons, that one time in the library stacks—he still blushed like it was the first time.

“Stop,” he muttered, but he was smiling huge. “People might still be outside.”

“Let them hear,” you said, kissing him again. “I’m proud of my boyfriend.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes soft and a little awed, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“I love when you call me that,” he admitted quietly.

“Boyfriend?” You tilted your head. “Or ex-President?”

He snorted. “Definitely boyfriend.”

You laced your fingers through his as you walked toward the door. “Good. Because I’m never calling you President again. Too formal. I’ve seen you beg way too prettily for that.”

He choked on a laugh, tugging you into his side as you stepped into the hallway. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

He stopped just outside the lecture hall, quiet corner, backing you gently against the wall for one more kiss—deeper this time, hands sliding to your waist.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips. “So much.”

You smiled into the kiss. “I love you too, Joon.”

And as you walked across campus hand-in-hand... him glancing at you every few steps like he couldn’t help it, smiling like he’d won everything.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For walking into my weird little club. For staying. For making me believe I was worth staying for.”

You stopped and cupped his face, thumbs brushing his dimples.

“Thank you for starting the weird little club,” you whispered back. “Best bet I ever lost.”

He grinned... the big, bright one that still made your stomach flip every time.

“Best thing I ever won,” he corrected.

And you knew he was right. Sometimes, you don’t need a club. You just need the right person and you’d both found yours.

The bell above the door chimed softly every time someone entered the bookstore, but you never looked up.

You preferred the corner armchair near the back window, half-hidden by a crooked shelf of yellowed paperbacks and forgotten hardcovers. The cushion dipped just right for your body now, like the chair had accepted your sadness as permanent.

Three weeks...

That’s how long you’d been in this neighbourhood.

Three weeks of hospitals, new streets, unfamiliar faces, and this bookstore had become the only place that didn’t ask questions.

Same time every afternoon around 4 p.m..

Same section of tragic romance.

Not the polished, modern heartbreaks stacked near the entrance. No... You drifted toward the older shelves near the back, where time moved slower.

Where the books leaned tiredly against one another, spines faded, pages slightly warped. Stories written by authors whose names were now spoken in past tense… voices that no longer existed except in ink.

There was something strangely comforting about that.

As if grief understood grief. As if endings written decades ago somehow hurt less than the ones still being lived.

He noticed you the fourth time he visited the bookstore in these past two weeks. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the beige cardigan with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Dark hair falling into his eyes.

Always carried a notepad and a single pencil tucked behind his ear. He never bought anything flashy... just philosophy, poetry, the occasional slim volume of essays.

Paid in exact change. Left quietly.

One day, he finally broke the silence.

You were halfway through RM’s The Last Season of Us again—your third reread since the diagnosis. The part where the protagonist realizes the goodbye is already written.

Your throat felt tight.

“Don’t you like to smile?” The voice was low, warm, curious—not mocking, but it still startled you.

You looked up.

He was leaning one shoulder against the opposite shelf, arms crossed, head tilted like he was studying a painting.

“Excuse me?” You asked, offended by his sudden question.

He gestured vaguely at the book in your lap. “I’ve seen you here almost every day for more than a week. You never smile at the cashier. You never smile when you pay. You just… take your sad book and leave. Like you’re collecting bruises.”

Heat crawled up your neck. Defensive instinct kicked in. “Maybe I don’t feel like smiling.”

He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense. Then, “You’re always reading the ones with sad endings. That author’s so overrated.”

The words landed like a slap.

You blinked. Once... Twice... “You’re saying RM is overrated?”

He shrugged, casual as breathing. “Yeah. He wrote like every love story has to end in a graveyard. It’s… predictable. Almost punishing.”

You closed the book with a soft snap. “You clearly haven’t read him properly.”

“I’ve read enough.” The irony sat heavy between you—thick, unspoken.

You stared at him.

Something about the shape of his mouth, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was thinking… it tugged at a place you couldn’t name.

He pushed off the shelf. “Anyways. I’m Namjoon.”

You hesitated. Then, quieter, “I’m… just here for the books.”

He smiled... small, lopsided. “Fair enough.”

He walked away.

You stared at the spot where he’d been standing for a long time after.

The next afternoon he was back.

You pretended not to notice him browsing two aisles over. He pretended not to glance at you every thirty seconds.

Eventually he wandered closer, holding a slim poetry collection... something hopeful and pastel-covered.

“Found something that doesn’t end in tears,” he said, holding it up like an offering.

You didn’t look up from your page. “Pass.”

He sighed dramatically and dropped into the armchair across from yours. “You’re stubborn.”

“You’re nosy.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Why do you defend him so hard?” he asked. “RM, I mean. You looked ready to fight me yesterday.”

You finally met his eyes. “Because some people don’t write sadness. They survive it. There’s a difference.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And you think he was surviving?”

“I think he was bleeding onto the page so the rest of us don’t have to.” You replied.

Namjoon studied you for a long moment. “He always wrote tragic love stories like he was punishing himself. Like he was trying to prove love always loses.”

Your chest ached—sharp, sudden.

You pressed your palm over your heart without thinking.

“Maybe he was just being honest,” you said quietly.

“Maybe he was just dramatic.” He replied almost instantly.

You frowned slightly, fingers tightening around the book in your lap. “Have you ever read this one?”

He blinked. “Which one?”

Without a word, you turned the cover toward him. The Last Season of Us.

“Ohh... I’ve read a few of his works... less tragic ones... and the poetries...” he admitted. “But not this one.”

Your surprise was immediate. “You haven’t?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve heard about it though.”

You tilted your head. “Heard what?”

“That it’s his most tragic book.” His lips twitched into a faint, uneasy smile. “The one people say leaves you emotionally damaged.”

You stared at him.

Your gaze dropped slowly back to the cover. “…They’re not wrong.”

Namjoon continued, voice half-teasing, half-serious. “But… I mean, people sob over dramatic movie scenes too, you know. And those only last two hours.”

You scoffed. “You sound like someone who’s never lost anything.”

He went still. Then, so softly... “Maybe I haven’t.”

“I’ve never been in love,” he added, almost like an afterthought. Like he was testing how the words sounded. “Not really. Not the kind that wrecks you.”

The confession hung there... too heavy, too honest for two strangers in a bookstore.

You swallowed. “Lucky you.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “Doesn’t feel lucky.”

You looked away first.

He stayed anyway.

The next day he brought you chamomile tea from the back counter. Set it on the armrest beside you without a word.

You stared at it.

“It’s not poisoned,” he said.

“I didn’t think it was.”

“Then drink it. You look cold.”

You didn’t say thank you. But you wrapped your fingers around the warm mug and drank it anyway.

Slowly, it became routine without either of you admitting it.

He’d appear at the same time you did. Sit across from you. Sometimes he read silently. Sometimes he asked questions.

“What’s your favorite song right now?”

“Why do you stay so quiet?”

“Do you believe in love stories with happy endings?”

Conversations drifted.

Books , music, the way rain sounded outside the window, the dreams you were too scared to chase, the regrets that lived under your tongue.

He started bringing you “happy” books. Thin volumes of poetry about sunrises. A novel about a person who slowly learns how to love yourself.

You never finished them.

“Why not?” he asked one evening, genuinely hurt.

“Because happy feels like a lie,” you said. “And I’m tired of lies.”

He didn’t argue.

One rainy Thursday you were both soaked from the drizzle when you entered the bookstore together. He shook water from his hair like a dog.

You laughed... short, surprised.

He froze. Stared at you like you’d grown wings.

“What?” you asked, self-conscious.

“Nothing. Just… you should do that more.”

“Do what?”

“Laugh. It suits you.”

You rolled your eyes. But the warmth stayed.

Later that week, after consecutive days of easy conversation, you asked, “Show me around the city sometime? I’m still getting lost.”

His face lit up... boyish, bright. “Sure, why not? I have my own vehicle for touring.”

You pictured a motorcycle. Maybe a car.

The next evening he waited outside the bookstore, leaning against the most ridiculous thing you’d ever seen... a rusty old bicycle with a basket and a bell that jingled when he tapped it.

You stared.

He grinned. “What? It’s eco-friendly.”

“You said vehicle.”

“This is a vehicle.”

You burst out laughing... real, helpless, louder.

Namjoon watched you, smile softening into something quieter, reverent. Like he’d waited lifetimes to hear that sound.

“You coming?” he asked, patting the back carrier. “Or are you gonna stand there giggling all night?”

You wiped your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you still asked me to show you around.”

You climbed on—awkward at first. Your arms hesitated, then wrapped loosely around his waist.

He pedalled slowly. “Hold tighter. I’m clumsy sometimes.”

You pressed your cheek to his back. Felt his heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt. The city blurred past—streetlights, laughter from open windows, the smell of wet pavement and grilled meat.

He rang the bell at every corner just to make you laugh again.

And for the first time in months, the ache in your chest felt less like drowning and more like something trying to bloom.

Over the next five weeks, the bicycle rides became sacred.

Neither of you called them dates. Neither of you called them anything at all. They just… happened. Every few evenings, sometimes twice in one week when the weather was kind.

You told yourself it was just friendship.

Just someone showing a new girl around. But friendships didn’t make your stomach flip when his fingers brushed yours reaching for the water bottle. Friendships didn’t leave you memorizing the exact rhythm of his breathing when he pedalled uphill.

He started picking you up outside your apartment instead of the bookstore. Always at dusk... golden hour turning everything soft and forgiving.

“Ready?” he’d call, ringing that stupid little bell twice like it was a secret code.

You sat on the back carrier again, thighs pressed to the metal frame, arms looped around Namjoon’s waist more confidently this time. The city unfolded slow and golden—street vendors calling out, children chasing kites, the distant hum of traffic like a heartbeat.

“Hold on tighter,” he called over his shoulder when the road dipped. “I’m not responsible if we fall and become a viral meme video.”

You squeezed harder.

Your cheek found the dip between his shoulder blades again. “You almost tipped us over last time because you were looking at that dog.”

“That dog was wearing sunglasses. It deserved admiration.”

You laughed into his back.

He rang the bell twice... tring-tring... like punctuation.

He started noticing things. The way your laugh cracked when he swerved to avoid a pothole and nearly toppled both of you.

“Shit—sorry!” he yelped, feet scrambling for balance.

You clutched him harder, laughing so hard tears pricked your eyes. “You’re the worst driver in the world.”

“I’m an excellent cyclist. You’re just distracting.”

“How am I distracting?” You argued.

“You exist. That’s enough.”

You hid your burning face against his back.

He started stopping at the same ice cream cart near the river every time. Strawberry for you. Chocolate for him. One evening he handed you yours and watched, quiet, while you licked a melting drip from the cone.

“You eat like you’re afraid it’ll disappear,” he said softly.

You shrugged. “Everything disappears eventually.”

He didn’t laugh. Just looked at you until you looked away.

It had been five days since you last rode with him.

You’d cancelled the last few evenings with the same excuse—texted him short, apologetic messages:

“Sorry, periods hit hard this time. Cramps are killer.” “Still not feeling great. Maybe tomorrow?” “I’m okay, just resting. Talk soon!!”

Each time he replied gently:

“Take care of yourself. Rest. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” “No pressure. Just let me know if you need anything—tea, soup, books. Anything.” “Miss your laugh already. Get better soon.”

You hated lying.

But the truth—another brutal round of chemo two days ago, the kind that left you hollowed out, nauseous for forty-eight hours straight. You weren’t ready for pity. Not from him.

Tonight you finally texted:

“I’m okay now. Meet at the usual spot? Sunset?”

His reply came in under thirty seconds:

“Already on my way. See you in 10.”

When you stepped out of your building he was already there—red bicycle leaning against the wall, hair slightly mussed from the ride over, eyes searching your face the second you appeared.

You forced a smile.

Tried to walk normally.

He didn’t buy it.

“You sure you’re up for this?” he asked quietly, stepping closer. His gaze flicked over you—lingering on the faint shadows under your eyes, the way your hoodie hung looser than last week.

“I’m fine,” you said. Too quick. “Just… took a few days to shake it off.”

He studied you for another beat. Didn’t push. Just nodded once. “Okay. But if you feel even a little off, we stop. Promise?”

“Promise.” You smiled gently.

He held the bike steady while you climbed on. Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else—wobbly, heavy—but you wrapped your arms around his waist anyway.

Tighter than usual. Like you needed the anchor.

He started slow. Slower than normal.

Taking the flattest paths, avoiding even the smallest inclines.

Halfway through the ride the wind picked up sharp... cooler than the last few evenings, carrying the faint metallic promise of rain.

You shivered. Once. Then again.

Without a word he coasted to a stop under a streetlamp. In one smooth motion he shrugged off his jacket—still warm from his body heat, sleeves slightly damp from earlier mist—and draped it over your shoulders.

The fabric swallowed you. Sleeves dangling past your fingertips.

“Keep it,” he said softly. “You look cold.”

“I’m fine.”

Another shiver betrayed you.

“You’re shivering,” he pointed out, voice gentle but firm. “And you’ve been pale since you got on. Don’t lie to me.”

You pulled the jacket tighter anyway.

Buried your nose in the collar when he turned back to the handlebars. It smelled exactly like him.

Safe. Familiar. Home in a way that made your eyes sting.

He glanced over his shoulder. Caught you inhaling.

A tiny, knowing smile tugged at his mouth.

“Smells good?” he teased quietly.

You flushed. “Shut up.”

“What!!?? I saw it.”

“You’re imagining it.”

“Maybe.” He started pedalling again—still slow. “I like that you like it. Makes me feel useful.”

You rested your cheek against his back. Listened to the steady thump of his heart.

After a few minutes of quiet riding he spoke again, softer this time. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. Whatever it is—periods, flu, bad day, anything. You can just say ‘I feel like shit today’ and I’ll still show up with the bike. Or soup. Or silence. Whatever you need.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know,” you whispered into his shoulder. “I just… didn’t want to worry you.”

He exhaled through his nose—like he was holding back a lot of words. “You worrying me is better than you hurting alone.”

A long pause. Only the soft whir of tires and distant traffic.

Then, barely audible... “I was worried anyway. Every day you didn’t text back right away. Every time you said you were ‘fine.’ I kept imagining worst-case scenarios.”

You squeezed him tighter. Arms locked around his middle. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just… let me in a little? Even if it’s just ‘today sucks.’ I'm good at handling sucks.”

You nodded against his back. Didn’t trust your voice.

You didn’t move for the rest of the ride.

Just held on—his warmth seeping through the jacket, through his shirt, into your palms. His heartbeat steady under your fingers. The city blurring past in soft gold and deepening blue.

For the first time in days the weakness in your limbs didn’t feel so lonely. It felt shared. Carried.

And when he finally pulled up outside your building, he helped you off with careful hands on your waist. Held you a second longer than necessary when your knees wobbled.

“Tomorrow? I'll show you around another library.” he asked, searching your face.

You managed a real smile... small, tired, but real. “Tomorrow.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. Thumb lingering on your skin. “Rest. Text me when you wake up.”

You laughed weakly. “I will.”

He waited until you were inside the door before pedalling away.

You stood in the hallway for a long minute—still wrapped in his jacket, breathing him in—before finally climbing the stairs.

The apartment door was already unlocked, light spilling warm into the narrow corridor. Your mother was in the living room, curled on the couch with a cup of tea gone cold in her hands.

She looked up the second you stepped inside, eyes flicking first to your face, then to the oversized jacket hanging off your shoulders like a borrowed shield.

“You’re late,” she said softly. Not accusing. Just observing.

“Namjoon took the long way. Said the river looked pretty tonight.”

She nodded slowly. Set the cup down. “He’s good to you.”

You kicked off your shoes, padded over, and dropped onto the couch beside her. The jacket stayed on. You weren’t ready to give up his scent yet.

“He noticed I was off,” you admitted, voice quiet. “I told him it was periods. Again. He didn’t push… but he knew I was lying.”

Your mother reached over, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “He’s observant. Gentle. The kind of gentle that doesn’t need to be loud about it.”

You nodded. Swallowed. “Mom… I think he’s the one.”

She didn’t look surprised. Just waited.

“The one from the dreams,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper.

“The man who held me when I was dying. The one who cried so hard he couldn’t breathe. The writer… RM. I’ve seen his blurry face in my sleep since I was sixteen. But it had the same eyes. The same voice. The way he says my name—like he’s afraid it’ll be the last time.”

Your mother reached over and covered your hand with hers.

She’d heard this story before... countless nights you woke up gasping, tears on your cheeks, telling her about the hospital room, the fading heartbeat, the man who begged you not to leave.

She’d taken you to psychiatrists, therapists, even a past-life regression specialist when you were nineteen. None of them could explain it away. They all said the same thing in the end: sometimes the soul remembers what the mind can’t prove.

“And now?” she asked gently.

“Now he’s here. In this life. Riding a stupid bicycle and draping his jacket over me when I shiver. And every time he looks at me… it’s the same look. Like he’s terrified of losing me again.”

She exhaled slowly. “Does he know? Does he remember?”

“No. He doesn't even like RM.” You shook your head fast.

“And... I can’t... I can’t tell him. Not yet. He thinks I moved here for a job. If he finds out about the cancer, about past life… he’ll look at me like I’m already gone. Just like in the dreams.”

Your mother squeezed your hand. “Sweetheart. He’s falling in love with you. He deserves to know the truth. All of it.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But what if knowing changes everything? What if he pulls away because he’s scared? Or worse... what if he stays out of pity?”

She brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. “Or what if he stays because he’s always stayed? Because even across lifetimes, he chooses you.”

Tears pricked your eyes.

You pressed your face into the collar of his jacket one more time.

“I’m not ready,” you said finally. “Not yet.”

Your mother nodded. Didn’t push.

“Then rest,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll be braver.”

You stood, still clutching the jacket like a lifeline, and headed to your room. Behind you, your mother watched with quiet, aching hope. She’d seen those dreams steal your sleep for years.

Now she was watching the man from them bring you back to life.

It happened on a random Friday night, almost more than six weeks into the routine. You’d walked the park paths after a short ride. You were teasing him about how he’d nearly crashed into a food cart earlier.

“You screamed like a cartoon character,” you said, bumping his shoulder.

“I did not scream. I yelped. Manly yelp.”

“Manly yelp,” you repeated, laughing. “Sure.”

He stopped walking and turned to face you under a single streetlamp. The light carved shadows under his cheekbones, turned his eyes darker.

“You laugh more now,” he said quietly.

You felt suddenly shy. “Maybe you’re less annoying now.”

“Or maybe I finally know what makes you smile.”

A beat.

Then another.

He stepped closer. Slow. Giving you time to move away.

You didn’t.

His hand lifted... hesitant, cupped your jaw like you were made of something fragile and expensive. Thumb brushed your bottom lip.

“Can I...?”

You didn’t let him finish.

You surged up on your toes and kissed him.

It started soft—testing, careful. Then it wasn’t.

His mouth opened against yours, hungry. Tongue sliding in, tasting like chocolate and want. You made a small, helpless sound. His other hand found your waist, yanked you flush against him.

You stumbled back until your spine hit the rough bark of a tree. He followed, crowding you in. One thigh pushed between yours—pressure right where you ached.

You gasped into his mouth.

He groaned low, filthy. “Fuck... been thinking about this for so long.”

You tugged his hair—hard. “Then stop thinking.”

He kissed you like he was starving. Teeth nipping your bottom lip. Sucking your tongue. Hand sliding under your shirt, palm flat and hot against your bare back. Fingers digging into skin.

You arched into him. Hips rolling once—instinct.

He hissed and pressed harder. You felt how hard he was through his jeans—thick, insistent. His mouth moved to your neck. Open-mouthed kisses. Teeth scraping. Sucking a bruise right under your jaw.

“Namjoon...”

“Say it again,” he rasped against your skin. “My name. Like that.”

“Namjoon...”

He growled. Hand sliding down, cupping your ass, lifting you just enough that you had to wrap one leg around his hip. The friction made you whimper. His fingers slipped under the waistband of your leggings—just teasing the elastic. Not going further. Not yet.

You were soaked. Aching. Ready to beg.

And then reality crashed in like cold water.

You froze.

He felt it instantly. Pulled back just enough to search your face.

“You ok...?”

You shook your head. Pushed at his chest—gentle, but firm.

“I can’t.”

His brows furrowed. “Did I—did I go too far? Ok... we stop... I’m sorry, I...”

“No. It’s not you.” Your voice cracked. “It’s me. I… I can’t do this when I don’t even know how long...”

He went still. “What?”

Tears burned fast. “I’m sorry.”

You slipped out from between him and the tree. Started walking—fast—toward the park exit.

“Y/N!”

He called your name. Once. Twice. Footsteps behind you. “Y/N! Stop... I'm sorry... Please... talk to me!”

You didn’t stop.

A taxi idled at the curb. You yanked the door open, slid inside, slammed it shut. “Drive. Please. Just drive.”

The driver glanced in the rearview. “Where to?”

“Anywhere. Away.” You looked back once.

The car pulled away.

Through the rear window you saw him—standing under the streetlamp, hands in his hair, mouth open like he’d been punched.

He shouted your name one last time.

You turned forward. Tears silent down your cheeks.

Three nights had passed since the park.

Three nights of radio silence on your end.

Namjoon had sent messages that started soft—

“Are you okay?” “I’m sorry if I pushed too far. Just let me know you’re okay.”“Please. Even one word. Anything.”

Calls went straight to voicemail.

He told himself he’d give you space. He told himself you were angry, or scared, or both. He told himself he hadn’t ruined everything.

But the ache in his chest wouldn’t listen.

That night he was walking home from the late-night convenience store—ramyeon cup still warm in the plastic bag, earbuds in, trying to drown out the loop of your kiss, your gasp, the way you’d pushed him away like he was fire and you were already burning.

He turned the corner onto your street just as headlights flashed wild across the building.

Your parents’ car screeched to a stop in front of your apartment block. The passenger door flew open before the engine even cut. Your father half-carried, half-dragged you out—your body limp, head lolling against his shoulder, eyes closed. Unconscious.

Namjoon’s plastic bag hit the pavement.

The ramyeon spilled, forgotten.

He stopped the taxi and followed you.

By the time he reached the hospital emergency entrance—lungs burning, legs shaking—the car was already gone from the drop-off zone. He burst through the sliding doors, wild-eyed, scanning every face.

He saw your mother first.

She stood near the triage desk, arms wrapped tight around herself, staring at the double doors where they’d wheeled you through.

“Mrs. Y/L/N... please... what happened? Is she—?”

Your mother turned.

Her face crumpled the second she recognized him. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days—eyes swollen, skin dull even under the fluorescent lights.

Namjoon stepped closer, voice cracking on every syllable. “I saw...I was just walking by—I saw your husband carrying her. She wasn’t moving. Please tell me she’s okay.”

Your mother opened her mouth. Closed it. Tears slipped free. “She… she’s inside. They’re checking her now.”

“Why?” He sounded like a child. “She was fine. Three days ago she was laughing on the back of my stupid bicycle.”

He stopped and swallowed hard.

Your mother looked away, shoulders shaking.

The silence stretched until it hurt.

Then she whispered, so quiet he almost missed it: “It wasn’t for jobs. The move here. The big city. Better opportunities… that was what we told people. What we told her friends back home.”

Namjoon went still.

“It was for the hospital,” she continued, voice fracturing. “For better doctors. For better treatment. For more time.”

Another beat.

“Cancer,” she said. The word landed like a stone through glass. “Stage III. They’re trying everything—chemo, radiation, trials—but… it’s not certain how long will it take to cure. Doctor's say it's curable but chances of reoccurring are uncertain.”

Namjoon staggered back one step.

His knees buckled. He caught himself against the wall.

Every memory refracted—sharp, painful... Your laugh when he almost crashed into the flower cart. Your head on his shoulder at sunset. The way you’d kissed him like you were trying to drink him whole before the world took you away.

All of it fragile. All of it stolen time.

He sank down onto the curb outside the entrance. Head in his hands. Shoulders heaving with silent, ugly sobs he couldn’t let out inside.

Hours passed. Rain started... soft at first, then harder.

He didn’t move.

Eventually your mother came out. She carried a thin plastic bag—your things from the admission desk. She saw him sitting there, soaked, unmoving.

She sat beside him without a word.

After a long minute, “She’s stable now. Sleeping. They gave her fluids, anti-nausea meds. She crashed from dehydration and exhaustion after the last round. It happens sometimes.”

Namjoon lifted his head. Eyes bloodshot. Voice wrecked. “Can I see her?”

Your mother studied him for what felt like forever.

Then she reached into the bag.

She pulled out a worn paperback. The cover was creased, spine cracked from countless rereads. RM – The Last Season of Us.

She held it out to him.

“Take this,” she said quietly. “She reads it over and over. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”

Namjoon stared at the book like it might bite.

Your mother pressed it into his hands. “Please read it. All of it. Maybe… maybe you’ll understand something. About her. About why she ran from you that night.”

He took it. Fingers trembling.

Your mother stood. “She talks about you all the time,” she added, softer. “Even when she pretends she doesn’t. She says your name in her sleep sometimes.”

Namjoon’s throat closed.

He followed her inside anyway... past the security desk, down the too-bright hallway, past beeping monitors and hushed voices.

Knowing nothing would ever feel the same again.

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You lay propped against thin pillows, skin pale against the white sheets, an IV line taped to the back of your hand. The bruises from needles bloomed like dark flowers up your arm.

Namjoon pushed the door open slowly, like he was afraid the hinges might scream.

He carried a small bouquet of white daisies—nothing fancy, just something he’d grabbed from the corner florist because he didn’t know what else to bring.

His eyes were already glassy before he even crossed the threshold.

You looked up from the half-read magazine your mother had left. Saw him. Your breath caught.

He tried to smile. It broke halfway.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

He walked to the side of the bed like the floor might crack under him. Set the flowers on the rolling tray. Pulled the plastic chair close and sat. Hands clasped tight between his knees so they wouldn’t shake.

For a long minute, neither of you spoke.

Then his shoulders started trembling.

He dropped his head. A tear hit his denim—loud in the quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I tried to be strong. I told myself I’d come in here and make jokes and tell you everything’s fine. But...” His voice cracked wide open. “I can’t. I can’t do it.”

You reached out... slow, careful because of the line, and brushed your fingers over his knuckles.

“Namjoon…”

He looked up. Eyes red and desperate.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he said, voice raw.

“One day you were just the girl in the bookstore who never smiled. The next… loving you feels like the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. Because now I know what it would feel like to lose you. And I...”

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye as he couldn't complete.

Tears slipped down your own cheeks now. You tried to wipe them away fast.

“So…” you managed, voice wobbling, trying for lightness, “RM is still overrated?”

He laughed... wet, broken, more sob than sound.

“Don’t...” He reached for your hand, gripped it tight. “Don’t say weird things like that. You’re not going anywhere. The doctor said it’s treatable. You will make it. You have to.”

You looked down at your joined hands. His thumb kept stroking over your knuckles like he was memorizing the shape.

“What if I won’t?” you whispered.

His grip tightened.

You kept going, softer. “I’m scared, Namjoon. Truth is… I never liked sad endings. I read them to get used to them. To practice. In case one day I had to live one.”

He made a small, wounded sound.

You lifted your eyes to his. “I’m so scared of leaving you with one of those endings.”

He stood, chair scraping back, climbed carefully onto the narrow bed beside you. Mindful of wires. Mindful of everything fragile.

He gathered you against his chest—slow, gentle, like you might shatter.

One arm around your shoulders.

The other cradling the back of your head. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck. Felt his pulse hammering under your lips.

“No,” he said fiercely against your hair. “We will not have a sad ending. I promise you. We’re going to have a happy beginning. Even if I have to fight every doctor, every statistic, every goddamn second of this stupid disease... I’m not letting it take you.”

You clung to his shirt. Fingers twisting fabric. “But what if...”

“No what-ifs.” He pulled back just enough to cup your face. Thumbs wiping your tears. “Look at me. You’re still here. I’m still here. That’s enough for right now.”

You nodded—small, shaky.

He kissed your forehead. Lingered there.

Fear didn’t listen to logic. But for a few minutes, wrapped in him, it was quieter.

He left when visiting hours ended, kissed your knuckles, promised he’d be back soon.

Back in his apartment, rain tapping the window like impatient fingers, he sat on the floor with his back against the couch. The Last Season of Us lay in his lap, the one your mother had given him.

He finally found courage to open it.

First page. Dedication: To the one I couldn’t keep. I’m sorry.

He read.

Line after line.

Familiar phrases. The hospital scene on page 147—rain outside, monitors beeping, a hand going cold in his. The protagonist whispering, “I wrote our story so I could survive losing you. But I still didn’t.”

Namjoon’s breath hitched.

Flash.

Another room. Older equipment. Different city.

Same you—smaller, frailer, smiling through cracked lips.

Same disease. No time left.

He remembered the sound of your last breath—like a sigh giving up. Remembered screaming into the empty hallway after the machines flatlined. Remembered picking up a pen the next week because the pain had nowhere else to go.

He’d written it all down.

Turned agony into chapters. Published it under his pen name. Swore to the empty room: Never again. If I ever find her, I won’t let it happen twice.

The book slipped from his hands. He pressed both palms to his eyes. A low, animal sound tore out of him—half sob, half scream.

He remembered everything. And he remembered promising himself he’d recognize you and protect you this time.

It was midnight.

Rain hammered the city like it wanted to wash everything clean. Namjoon didn’t wait for morning.

He dragged his bicycle out of the stairwell... tires hissing on wet pavement. Pedalled hard through sheets of water. Soaked in seconds. Hair plastered to his forehead. Shirt clinging. But he didn’t care.

He skidded to a stop outside the hospital emergency entrance. Chained the bike to the railing with shaking hands and ran inside—dripping, breathless—past the security guard who yelled something about wet floors.

Up three flights of stairs because the elevator was too slow.

Your room door was cracked open.

Dim light from the hallway spilled across the floor.

He pushed inside.

You were awake—curled on your side, staring at the rain-streaked window. You turned at the sound and saw him—rain-soaked, chest heaving, eyes wild and red. “Namjoon?”

He crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees beside the bed. He gripped the rail so hard his knuckles whitened.

“I read it,” he rasped. “The book. The Last Season of Us. Every word. Every line. It’s us. It was us. I wrote it. I lost you once, exactly like this. Hospital. Rain. No time left. I held your hand until it went cold and I...”

His voice broke. “I screamed so loud the nurses thought I was dying too.”

You stared at him. Tears welled fast.

He kept going—words tumbling. “I swore I’d never let it happen again. I wrote the pain so I could survive it. But I never stopped looking for you. I just… didn’t know what I was looking for until you laughed on the back of my stupid bicycle.”

You reached out. Trembling fingers brushed his wet cheek.

“Did you remember me, finally?” you whispered.

He nodded... jerky, desperate. “You knew?”

“Not at first.” A small, watery smile. “But the moment you asked why I didn’t smile… something in me recognized you. My soul did. Even when my head was still catching up.”

He broke and pulled you into his arms. He buried his face in your neck. Shoulders shaking.

“I won’t let destiny take you from me again,” he choked out. “Not this time. Not ever. I’ll burn every page of that book if I have to. I’ll rewrite the ending myself. But you’re staying. You’re staying with me.”

You wrapped your arms around him... weak but fierce.

“I’m trying,” you whispered. “I’m trying so hard.”

He held you tighter. Like the world might reach in and steal you any second. Rain kept falling outside. But inside that small room, two lifetimes finally touched.

And for the first time in either of them, neither of you felt alone.

The months blurred into a rhythm of hospital corridors, sterile smells, and the quiet hum of IV pumps. Namjoon became part of it... part of you, like he’d always belonged there.

He never left your side.

At the hospital he arrived before dawn most days, coffee for the nurses, fresh water for you, a new book or playlist ready on his phone. During chemo sessions he sat beside the recliner, holding your hand the entire four to six hours.

When the nausea hit hardest, he rubbed slow circles on your back, murmuring nonsense to distract you. “Breathe with me, okay? In… two… three… out… two… three… Good girl.”

When the cold sweats came he draped his hoodie over your shoulders even though it swallowed you whole.

“I look ridiculous,” you mumbled once, half-asleep under the blanket.

“You look like mine,” he answered softly, tucking a strand of thinning hair behind your ear. “That’s the only thing that matters.”

He slept in the hospital chairs... neck crooked, long legs folded uncomfortably, until his spine complained. The nurses started calling him by name. Your mother once found him dozing with your hand still clasped in his, thumb stroking your wrist even in sleep.

She stood in the doorway a long moment.

Later she told your father, voice thick, “He’s not leaving her. Not for a second. I’ve never seen anyone love like that.”

Your father only nodded, eyes suspiciously shiny. “Good. She needs someone who won’t run. Someone who keeps the faith alive.”

At home it was different—quieter, softer, more intimate.

After discharge days, when the worst of the nausea eased, Namjoon moved most of his things into your small apartment. Your parents didn’t object. They simply made space.

Your mother started cooking extra portions “just in case he’s hungry.” Your father began leaving the newspaper open to the crossword because Namjoon liked finishing it with you.

Nights were for holding each other.

You’d crawl into bed first... exhausted, bones aching, and he’d follow minutes later after turning off lights and locking doors. He always slid in behind you, big spoon, chest to your back, one arm banded around your waist, the other tucked above your head.

Some nights you couldn’t sleep. The fear crept in dark and cold.

“Namjoon?” you whispered into the dark once, voice small.

“Hm?” His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Will you still love me if I go bald?”

He went still for half a second. Then he pressed a slow kiss to the nape of your neck.

“I’ll love you more,” he murmured. “I’ll get to see your pretty ears. And your neck. And that little mole behind your left one that only shows when your hair’s up.”

You snorted—weak, but real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.” He nuzzled closer. “I’ll rub your head like a lucky egg. Make bald jokes. Call you my shiny moon baby.”

“Shiny moon baby?” You laughed despite yourself—quiet, breathless.

“Mhmm. Brightest thing in my sky. Always has been.”

You turned in his arms until you faced him. His eyes were soft in the dark.

You traced the line of his jaw. “Promise?”

“Swear on every book I’ve ever read,” he said solemnly. Then softer, “I won’t lose you twice, baby. Not even to hair loss.”

You buried your face in his chest. He held you tighter and fell asleep to the sound of your breathing evening out.

He told you silly jokes on the bad days.

One morning you woke vomiting into the basin. He held your hair back... whatever was left of it, with one hand, rubbed your back with the other.

When it passed and you were shaking, tears streaming, he wiped your mouth with a cool cloth and said, “Why don’t skeletons fight each other?”

You groaned. “Not now.”

“They don’t have the guts.”

You stared at him. Then huffed a tiny laugh. “You’re the worst. Stop taking dad jokes lessons from your Hyung.”

“Made you smile though,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “Worth it.”

Your parents watched it all.

One evening your mother walked in to find Namjoon carefully braiding what little hair you still had... tiny, messy plaits because it hurt less than brushing.

She froze in the doorway.

Namjoon looked up. “Hi, eomma.”

She blinked fast. “You… you called me eomma.”

He flushed. “Sorry... I—”

“No.” She stepped closer. Pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Keep calling me that. Please.”

Your father caught him in the kitchen one night washing dishes after you’d fallen asleep early.

“Son,” he said gruffly.

Namjoon turned, soap bubbles dripping.

Your father cleared his throat. “You’re good for her. Better than good. Don’t ever think we don’t see it.”

Namjoon swallowed. “I just want her to be okay.”

“We all do.” Your father squeezed his shoulder once—hard, brief. “But you’re the one making sure she remembers she’s still alive.”

Namjoon nodded. Didn’t trust himself to speak.

One afternoon, sunlight slanted through the living room curtains. You were having a better day... no nausea, energy flickering like a candle that hadn’t quite gone out.

You ended up on the couch together.

You in his lap, legs draped over his, head tucked under his chin. He was reading aloud from a light novel he’d found in a bookstore—something absurd about time-traveling cats who fixed broken hearts by knocking over vases in the past.

His voice rumbled under your ear. It was warm and steady.

You traced the veins on the back of his hand—slow, absent patterns. “Joon?”

“Hm?”

You tilted your head up. “When I’m better… will you still hold me like this?”

He stopped reading mid-sentence, closed the book gently and set it on the coffee table. Then he turned you carefully... hands on your hips—so you straddled his thighs. Mindful of the port in your chest. Mindful of everything.

He cupped your face in both palms. His thumbs brushing your cheekbones.

“Every day,” he said quietly. “Every night. Until you’re sick of me.”

You smiled—small, real, the kind that reached your eyes. “Never... I can never be sick of you.”

He leaned in then and kissed you slow, deep and careful.

No rush. No desperation. Just the quiet certainty of someone who planned to keep you forever.

His tongue brushed yours... gentle sweep. You sighed into his mouth. One of his hands slid to the small of your back, pressing you closer. The other stayed on your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

When you parted—barely—he rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Past lives, present, whatever comes next. All of it.”

You closed your eyes. Let the words sink in like medicine.

“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when I’m shiny moon baby.”

He chuckled... low, fond, and kissed you again... Softer this time...

The hospital corridor smelled different that morning.

Not sharp with antiseptic dread. Not heavy with the metallic tang of fear. It smelled… clean. Like fresh linen and possibility. Like someone had finally opened a window after months of locked rooms.

You sat on the edge of the exam table in the oncology wing, legs dangling, paper gown crinkling every time you shifted. Namjoon stood beside you, his hand never leaving the small of your back.

His thumb moved in tiny, unconscious circles over the thin fabric, grounding both of you.

The door opened.

Dr. Kim... your oncologist for the last eight months—stepped in holding a thin folder. She smiled. Not the careful, professional one she usually wore.

It was a real one. Small. Tired. Triumphant.

You felt Namjoon go rigid beside you.

“Well,” Dr. Kim said, voice soft but steady, “your latest scans are back. And...” She opened the folder. Turned it so you could both see. She continued. “No evidence of disease. Clean. Everywhere.”

Silence... Then your breath punched out of you—sharp, shocked.

Namjoon’s hand on your back stilled. Then started shaking.

You looked at him.

His eyes were already glassy. Mouth parted like he’d forgotten how words worked. “Clean?” he repeated—barely a whisper.

Dr. Kim nodded. “Clean. We’ll still keep monitoring, of course. But today… today you won.”

You laughed... once, broken and bright, and it cracked open into a sob.

Namjoon turned to you fully and pulled you into his arms right there on the exam table. Buried his face in your hair, his shoulder started heaving.

“You did it,” he choked out against your temple. “You fucking did it.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” you whispered, clinging to his shirt. “You all carried me through half of it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes red, smile wobbly and huge. “I’d carry you through a thousand more,” he said. “Any lifetime. All of them.”

Dr. Kim excused herself quietly and left you two wrapped in each other. When you finally left the cabin—discharge papers clutched like treasure—the air outside felt lighter.

The sky felt bluer. The sun felt warmer.

Your parents were waiting outside. Your mother saw your face first.

She burst into tears before you even reached her.

“Oh my baby,” she sobbed, pulling you into a crushing hug. “My brave, brave girl.”

Your father didn’t speak. Just reached and squeezed your in his arms once—hard—then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

At home the apartment felt different too.

Smaller... Warmer... Like it had been holding its breath for months and could finally exhale.

Your mother disappeared into the kitchen—said something about making your favorite soup even though it was barely noon. Your father sat on the couch and stared at the wall like he couldn’t quite believe the room was still standing.

Namjoon never let go of your hand.

He sat beside you on the couch. He kept smiling... through tears, through shaky breaths, through everything.

“I can’t stop,” he said quietly, laughing at himself. “I keep thinking if I stop smiling the universe will take it back.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He turned and pressed his lips to your hair. “Good. Because I have plans. Big ones. Forever-sized ones.”

Your mother came back with tea... hands trembling so badly the cups rattled. She set them down and looked between you two.

“You two…” She swallowed. “You’ve been through hell. And you came out holding each other tighter than before.”

Namjoon ducked his head—shy suddenly.

Your father cleared his throat from across the room.

“Son,” he said gruffly.

Namjoon looked up.

“You kept your promise,” your father continued. “You didn’t let her go.”

Namjoon’s throat worked. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

Your mother reached out—squeezed Namjoon’s free hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For loving her when she couldn’t love herself.”

Namjoon’s eyes filled again. “I’ve loved her longer than any of us knew,” he said softly.

Evening came gentle.

Golden light poured through the windows. The apartment smelled like your mother’s soup and fresh laundry.

You were curled on the couch in Namjoon’s lap again—habit now, comfort now. He’d been quiet for the last hour. Fidgety in a way he rarely was.

You noticed.

“Everything okay?” you asked, tracing the line of his collarbone through his shirt.

He swallowed and nodded once.

Then he shifted you gently off his lap and stood.

Your heart kicked up.

He walked to the window—back to you for a second—took a deep breath. Then turned and dropped to one knee. Right there on your mother’s living room rug.

Your breath caught.

He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket—simple, black.

Opened it...

A thin silver band. A tiny sapphire in the center... like the color of the sky after rain. His hands were shaking so badly.

“I’ve lost you once,” he said—voice rough, cracking on every word. “Across lifetimes. In hospital rooms. In endings I wrote myself because I couldn’t bear the real one.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away.

“I won’t risk another lifetime without choosing you. Every single day. Every single second. I want forever with you—the boring mornings, the bad days, the good ones, the ones where we fight over who left dishes in the sink. I want it all. With you.”

He looked up—eyes shining, desperate, devoted. “Will you marry me?”

The room went still.

Your parents stood frozen in the doorway—your mother’s hand over her mouth, your father’s arm around her shoulders.

You stared at him.

At the boy who’d judged your sad books. At the man who’d held you through chemo. At the soul who’d found you again.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Then louder... laughing through tears—“Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.”

Namjoon surged up. You met him halfway.

He slid the ring on your finger—hands trembling so much he almost dropped it. Then pulled you into his arms—crushing, desperate, joyful.

Your parents slipped quietly out of the room. Closed the door with a soft click. Gave you space.

You hugged him tighter.

He buried his face in the curve of your neck. Breathed you in like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

“We survived,” he whispered against your skin... voice wrecked and reverent. “We fucking survived.”

You laughed... teary, happy... into his shoulder. “We did.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss you—slow, deep, tasting like salt and promise. When you parted—foreheads pressed together—he smiled through the tears.

“Happy beginning?” he asked softly.

You nodded. Traced the dimple in his cheek. “Happiest.”

He kissed you again—gentler this time.

And outside the closed door, your parents stood in the hallway... crying quietly, holding each other—listening to the sound of two lifetimes finally getting their forever.

The sun hung lazy and golden over the Han River path that Sunday afternoon.

You sat on the back carrier of the same rusty red bicycle—polished now, new tires, bell still jingling like it remembered every laugh it had earned.

Your arms wrapped snug around Namjoon’s waist, cheek resting on his back. Wedding bands caught the light—simple silver, matching sapphires winking every time he turned the pedals.

It had been one whole year since the small wedding. Just close family and a few friends in a quiet garden.

Seokjin, his brother officiating the wedding, and cracking jokes the whole time to hide how emotional he was getting. Your mom and dad holding hands and crying through every vow.

Namjoon’s voice shaking so hard on “I do” that he had to stop and take a breath, eyes shiny, looking at you like you were the only real thing in the universe.

Now everything felt… easy... Soft...

Like borrowed time had quietly turned into forever without anyone noticing.

“Still can’t believe our wedding photos have this rusty bike photobombed in the back,” you teased, pressing a quick kiss to the warm skin on his back. “Very romantic, Mr. Kim. Super classy.”

Namjoon chuckled—the low, happy sound that always made your stomach flip even after a whole year. “Romantic and ridiculous. Perfect combo. Just like us.”

You squeezed him tighter. “You’re lucky I like ridiculous.”

He slowed the bike as you neared the little ice cream cart tucked under the same old tree...the exact spot you’d stopped at a hundred times before you even knew you were falling in love.

The ahjumma there still recognized you both. She always smiled extra wide and gave you an extra scoop “for the cute couple.”

Namjoon coasted to a gentle stop.

He braced one foot on the ground and turned his head just enough so you could see his dimple.

“Still think RM's overrated?” you asked, grinning as you slid off the carrier and stepped in front of him. You looped your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the soft hair at his nape.

He groaned playfully—long and dramatic... “In my defense… I didn’t know the tragic love story I wrote was actually our backstory. I would’ve given myself five stars if I knew.”

You tipped your head, eyes sparkling. “So… still overrated?”

He leaned down slow, nose brushing yours. “Most underrated genius in history. Every sad page was just me trying to survive until I found you again.”

You melted a little—same as always. Kissed him soft and sweet right there under the cherry blossoms. Late petals floated down like slow snow, catching in his hair.

He kissed you back... gentle, lingering, like he still couldn’t believe he got to do this every day.

A kid on a scooter zoomed past and giggled. “Ewww, kissing!”

Namjoon pulled back just enough to call after the kid—grinning huge. “One day you’ll understand, little man!”

You buried your face in his chest, laughing so hard your shoulders shook. “You’re so embarrassing.”

“Your embarrassing husband,” he said proudly, kissing the top of your head. “Come on. Let's have Ice cream. Strawberry for my wife. Chocolate for me. Extra sprinkles because we survived everything.”

You walked hand-in-hand to the cart.

The ahjumma beamed when she saw you. “Ah, the bicycle couple! One year already? Look at you two—still so in love!”

Namjoon ducked his head shyly while you grinned and said, “Even more in love, imo. He’s stuck with me now.”

The ahjumma laughed and handed over the cones—extra big scoops, just like always.

You sat on the low stone wall nearby, shoulders touching, legs swinging a little. You licked your strawberry cone and held it out to him. “Trade?”

He took a tiny bite, then offered you his chocolate. “Always.”

For a few minutes you just ate in comfortable quiet—watching the river sparkle, listening to kids laughing farther down the path, feeling the sun warm your skin.

The breeze carried the smell of grass and water and sugar. Everything felt slow and golden and exactly right.

Then Namjoon glanced over.

A little drip of strawberry ice cream had escaped and was sliding slowly toward the corner of your mouth.

He smiled... soft, fond, a little mischievous.

Without saying anything, he reached up with his thumb and gently wiped it away. His touch lingered just a second longer than necessary, thumb brushing the edge of your lip.

You froze mid-lick, eyes flicking to his.

He didn’t pull his hand back.

Instead he leaned in closer... slow, giving you time to stop him if you wanted. His nose brushed yours first. Then his lips found the same spot he’d just cleaned—soft kiss, tasting like chocolate and him.

You melted into it instantly—free hand coming up to cup his cheek, cone forgotten for a second as you kissed him back, sweet and lazy and full of that easy, everyday love you’d both fought so hard for.

A sharp whistle cut through the air from behind you. “Get a room, lovebirds!”

Some teenager on a skateboard cruised past, grinning wide and giving a cheeky thumbs-up before speeding off.

You broke the kiss first... laughing bright and breathless against Namjoon’s mouth. He was laughing too, forehead resting on yours, eyes crinkled at the corners.

You nudged his nose with yours. “Take me home, husband.”

Namjoon’s smile turned slow and warm. After you both finished your ice-cream, he stood first, offering you his hand like he always did. “Anything for my wife.”

Namjoon’s apartment... now yours too... smelled like the coffee he’d brewed that morning, his familiar cedar cologne, and the faint vanilla candle your mother had brought every time she visited.

You barely made it through the door. He kicked it shut behind you—except he didn’t.

The lock didn’t click.

You didn’t notice. Neither did he.

You were already reaching for each other—soft hands sliding into his hair, lips meeting in a slow, familiar kiss that still felt like coming home after a long day.

He sighed against your mouth, arms wrapping around your waist like he never wanted to let go. He backed you gently toward the living room couch, steps careful, never breaking the kiss.

Clothes came off quietly, piece by piece.

Your sundress slipped down your shoulders and pooled at your feet. His shirt followed—unbuttoned slowly, reverently, like unwrapping something precious.

There was no rush... no hurry...

He lifted you with easy tenderness, hands under your thighs, and settled onto the couch with you in his lap—straddling him gently, chests pressed together.

Your arms looped around his neck.

His palms smoothed up your bare back in long, soothing strokes.

“God,” he whispered against the hollow of your throat, voice soft and awed. “I still can’t believe it’s been a whole year since you said yes to me.”

You smiled into his hair, rocking your hips once—slow, gentle, just enough to feel him harden beneath you. “Still can’t believe you got down on one knee like we were in a romance novel book.”

He laughed quietly... warm, a little shy. “I practiced in the mirror. Three times... Cried twice because I kept picturing your face.”

You cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his dimples. “My sweet romantic husband.”

His hands roamed... slow, loving, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the soft undersides of your breasts. You arched a little into his touch.

He dipped his head, took one nipple into his mouth—gentle suck, tongue swirling lazily until a soft whimper escaped you.

“Namjoon…”

“Say it again,” he murmured, kissing across to the other side. “My name. Just like that.”

“Namjoon.” You threaded your fingers through his hair, not tugging, just holding. “Love me like you’ve always loved me.”

He made a quiet, reverent sound in his throat.

He eased you down onto your back against the cushions—careful, always careful. Kneeled between your thighs. Hooked your legs loosely over his shoulders, palms warm on your hips.

“Look at me, baby,” he whispered.

You did... eyes soft, trusting.

He held your gaze as he kissed down your stomach—slow open-mouthed kisses, little nuzzles against your skin.

Then lower...

He eased your thighs apart with the lightest pressure of his palms—thumbs stroking slow circles on the sensitive skin just inside, not pushing, just asking.

You let him, legs falling open willingly, heart already racing from the way he looked up at you... eyes dark with love, lips parted, breathing a little uneven like this was still the most sacred thing he’d ever been allowed to do.

“Still okay, baby?” he murmured, voice low and velvet-soft against your inner thigh. He pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss right there—slow, lingering, tongue flicking out just enough to taste your skin.

You nodded, fingers already reaching for his hair. “More than okay… please, Joon.”

He smiled against you, then kissed higher.

Another wet press of lips to the crease where thigh met hip. Then another, softer, slower. The tip of his tongue traced a gentle line along the edge, tasting salt and warmth and you.

“You always taste so sweet,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Like I could stay here forever and still miss you when I come up for air.”

You let out a shaky laugh that turned into a sigh as his mouth finally found your center—warm, careful, loving.

No rush.

Just the flat of his tongue gliding slow from bottom to top in one long, tender stroke, collecting every bit of wetness like he was savouring something rare.

“Oh—Joon…”

He hummed in response... soft, pleased vibration that rippled straight through your clit. You felt it everywhere, tiny sparks dancing up your spine.

“Like that?” he asked quietly, lips brushing your folds as he spoke. Another slow lick—broad, gentle, ending with the softest swirl around your clit. “Tell me if it’s too much… or not enough.”

“Not enough,” you breathed, hips lifting just a fraction. “More… please.”

He kissed your clit then—soft, wet pecks like he was kissing your mouth. Each one a little longer, a little deeper, tongue flicking out between to taste.

“God, you’re so pretty,” he murmured between kisses.

“So soft… so wet for me already.” He sucked gently... lips sealing around your clit with the lightest pull, tongue fluttering underneath in tiny, patient circles.

Not hard. Never hard. Just enough to make your toes curl and your breath hitch sweetly.

“Joon—feels so good…”

He pulled back just enough to look up at you—chin glistening, eyes glassy with adoration. “You’re doing so well, baby. Just breathe for me… let me take care of you.”

Then he was back... tongue dipping lower, tracing slow, loving paths through your folds, lapping up every drop with quiet reverence. He kissed your entrance... soft, open-mouthed, tongue slipping just inside for a gentle, shallow thrust before sliding back up to circle your clit again.

You whimpered—fingers tightening in his hair.

He felt the shift.

He slid two fingers inside you—slow, careful, palm up so they curled toward that perfect spot on every gentle push. He didn’t thrust fast. Just rocked them in tiny, loving strokes while his tongue stayed soft and steady on your clit—lapping, swirling, kissing.

“Talk to me, love,” he whispered against you, voice muffled and warm. “Tell me how it feels.”

“So warm… so full… don’t stop—please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he promised. Another soft hum against your clit—vibration making your hips lift. “I’ve got you. Always got you.”

He kept the rhythm gentle—fingers curling slow and deep, tongue never rushing, just worshipping with every lick, every kiss, every careful suck.

You felt the warmth build like slow-rising tide—sweet pressure coiling low in your belly. “Joon—I’m close…”

“I know, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your clit with every word. “I can feel you fluttering around my fingers… so pretty when you let go for me.”

He sucked a little softer while his fingers pressed steady against that spot.

You came quietly—body trembling in gentle waves, soft gasps turning into his name like a prayer. Fingers threading deeper into his hair, holding him close as warmth rolled through you in slow, sweet pulses.

He kissed you through every aftershock... gentle licks, soft presses of lips, never stopping until your thighs finally relaxed and your breathing evened out into shaky little sighs.

Only then did he crawl up your body—slow, careful, trailing wet, loving kisses the whole way.

One on your hip... One on your stomach... One between your breasts... One on each collarbone...

Then your throat... Your jaw... The corner of your mouth.

When he reached your lips he kissed you deep and slow—letting you taste yourself on his tongue, sharing the intimacy like a secret just for the two of you.

“I love how you bloom for me,” he whispered against your lips, voice barely above a breath, like the words were too precious to speak any louder.

His mouth brushed yours again—wet, gentle, lingering.

A slow lick along the seam of your lips until you parted for him. Tongues met in a lazy, slippery slide, soft and unhurried, tasting each other like it was the first time all over again.

You smiled into the kiss, eyes half-closed, and reached between your bodies. Fingers curled around the waistband of his boxers, easing them down slowly, reverently.

When your hand wrapped around him—warm, gentle strokes from base to tip... he let out a shaky exhale against your mouth.

“Baby…” His voice cracked just a little, forehead dropping to rest on yours. Eyes fluttering shut for a second as he savoured the feel of your palm. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I do,” you murmured, thumb brushing over the sensitive head in a slow circle. “Same thing you do to me. Every time.”

He chuckled and kissed you again—deeper this time, but still so tender.

Wet, open-mouthed, little sucking kisses along your bottom lip. A soft lick to the corner of your mouth. Then another—longer, slower—until you were both breathing harder, lips shiny and swollen.

“Inside,” you breathed against him. “Please, Joon. I need you.”

He nodded—small, almost reverent.

He lined himself up at your entrance... tip nudging gently, slick and warm from how ready you already were. Pushed in inch by careful inch, eyes never leaving your face. Watching every flutter of your lashes, every soft parting of your lips.

You sighed... sweet, breathy... at the slow stretch.

The way he filled you so perfectly, so completely. Your nails rested lightly on his shoulders—not digging, just holding on like he was your anchor.

“Still feels like the first time,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion, eyes glassy. “Every single time. Like my body remembers you even when my mind forgets how lucky I am.”

You lifted your head to kiss the corner of his eye—soft, wet press of lips.

“Always,” you answered quietly. “You’re always home to me.”

He bottomed out... hips flush to yours and paused. Both of you breathing together, chests rising and falling in the same slow rhythm. Hearts pressed so close you could feel each other’s pulse.

Then he moved—slow, deep rolls of his hips, gentle and steady, like he was rocking you to sleep and waking you up at the same time. One hand slipped between your bodies, fingertips finding your clit, circling in lazy, loving patterns.

Not rushing... Just coaxing... Loving...

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, ankles crossing at the small of his back.

“More,” you whispered against his mouth. “Just like this. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, voice soft and wrecked. “Never stopping. Not with you.”

He kissed you again... tongues sliding slow and slick. A gentle suck on your bottom lip. A soft lick along your upper one. Then down to your jaw—little wet kisses trailing to the sensitive spot under your ear.

He nuzzled there, breathing you in.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “So warm. So perfect. Like you were made to hold me.”

You tilted your head back—giving him more room.

He took it—soft kisses down the column of your throat, tongue flicking lightly over your pulse. Then back up... wet press of lips to your cheek, your temple, the bridge of your nose.

“Joon…” Your voice trembled—soft, needy. “Kiss me again.”

He did... immediately.

Deep, slow, wet.

Tongues tangling gently, little sighs shared between your mouths.

“Love you,” he whispered into the kiss. “So much. Every day. Every second.”

“Love you,” you echoed—voice catching. “More than yesterday. More tomorrow.”

He shifted his hips just enough—angle perfect, pressure building slow and sweet and inevitable. His fingers never stopped, gentle circles, steady rhythm matching his thrusts.

You felt it rise—soft, rolling waves instead of crashing ones. Your thighs trembled. Your breath hitched in little gasps.

“Close?” he asked softly, forehead pressed to yours again. Eyes locked—dark, loving, endless.

You nodded... tiny, frantic. “Yeah... please... don’t stop—”

“Won’t,” he breathed. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you. Let me feel us.”

You shattered quietly... soft, rolling pleasure that made your whole body bloom under him. Clinging to his shoulders, whispering his name like a secret prayer—over and over, soft and broken.

He groaned low—quiet, reverent—as your walls fluttered around him. Hips pressing deep, slow, grinding gently through your release.

Then he followed... quiet groan muffled against your neck, hips stuttering once, twice, before he spilled inside you—warm, slow pulses that made you sigh his name again.

He stayed buried—softening inside, arms wrapping tighter around you, face tucked into the curve of your neck.

You held each other close.

Little wet kisses scattered across skin—his lips on your collarbone, yours on his temple. Quiet breaths mingling. Fingers tracing lazy patterns on damp backs.

“We made it,” he whispered after a long moment, voice thick with everything he felt.

You smiled against his throat... soft, sleepy, content. “Happy beginning.”

He chuckled... gentle, wrecked, full of love. “Happiest. Every day with you.”

Then...

The front door creaked open.

Your mother’s voice floated in first. “We brought some side dishes... oh my God—”

Your father’s deeper voice followed—immediately horrified. “Namjoon... son—!”

You both froze.

Namjoon yanked the throw blanket from the back of the couch—covered you both in one frantic motion. Your mother spun around so fast she almost dropped the tupperware.

Your father already moved outside the door.

Namjoon... still half inside you under the blanket, cleared his throat. “Uh… hi, Eomma. Appa.”

You buried your face in his neck—laughing so hard tears came.

Your mother fanned herself. “I... we... door wasn’t locked!”

Namjoon winced, realizing. “My fault. Got… distracted.”

Your father muttered something about “kids these days”.

Your mother finally peeked over her shoulder—eyes squeezed almost shut. “Are you… decent?”

“Mostly,” you managed between giggles.

She sighed—fond, exasperated. “We’ll just… put the food in the kitchen. And lock the door on our way out.”

Your father was already halfway there. “Lock it properly next time, son,” he called without turning around.

The door clicked shut. Silence...

Then you both dissolved into helpless laughter.

Namjoon dropped his forehead to yours, still laughing.

“I love you,” he gasped. “Even when we traumatize your parents.”

You kissed him, slow, sweet, full of everything you’d fought for. “I love you more,” you whispered.

He grinned—dimples deep.

You kissed him again—deeper this time.